


The Dragon of the North

by TaraTargaryen



Series: Hearthfire [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Freeform, Gift Giving, Love, Mild Gore, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:13:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTargaryen/pseuds/TaraTargaryen
Summary: The fate of Skyrim begins to unfold andThe players take their places.





	1. Whiterun

Farkas sat, cross-legged in the courtyard, watching Ria and Vilkas sparring with careful interest. The weather was fair and the earliest risers among the city-folk were approaching the town markets. He could hear their hearts fluttering in their chests, excitedly discussing the tremors from yesterday, and worrying about the thick, black smoke that curled in the air some distance away, billowing straight up from Helgen like a stair to Oblivion.

His beast lay quiet, sated and lazy after yesterday's hunt. Vilkas suddenly blocked Ria's advance with a particularly sharp blow and called a halt to the training, storming up the steps and slamming Jorrvaskr's doors behind him. Aela sighed, and Skjor frowned, returning to his own training with Athis with renewed fierceness. Farkas didn't fault either for their disagreements with Kodlak, but he found himself wishing they could be more understanding of his brother's choice, rather than urging him to reconsider. Farkas himself had no such trouble with his beast, and it had began to deepen the rift between them of late. Vilkas did not confide in him any longer, and turned only to the Harbinger. He felt all of it, Vilkas' shame, embarrassment, and impotence. His furious envy, not just of Farkas' calm, but also of Aela and Skjor's callous disregard for Kodlak's wishes. He felt misunderstood, which Farkas could not comprehend. He could feel everything his brother felt as though the feelings stirred in his own breast. 

There was work to be done. He placed his concerns aside and returned to Ria's training, easily picking up where Vilkas had left off.

 

He smelled her before he ever saw her.

 

A faint breeze wafted through Whiterun, carrying her scent with it, winding around his nose and tickling the hairs on his forearms. Aela and Skjor paused too, noses to the wind like dogs. She paused at the city gates, and Farkas heard the city guards stirring. 

"She comes from Helgen." Aela's curiosity was piqued.

The stranger's urgency spurred her feet as she ran through the city, through the markets towards the cloud District. Her heart beat like a battle tattoo in her chest, so loud and strong in his ears he could almost hear her blood rushing through it. She carried the smell of acrid black smoke and ash, making Farkas' eyes water, masking any other indications of who she was or where she might have come from. He tried and failed to discern the usual accompanying scents; burning wood or kindling, or the rusted notes of mage-fire. Whoever she was, and whatever message she carried, it was for the Jarl's ears first. As she pounded up the stairs to Dragonsreach, he caught a glimpse of her over the stone walls. She was broad-shouldered and stocky, on the small side for a Nord, with brilliant copper hair that was lit up like fire in the sunlight.

 

Later in the afternoon, he sat by the window with a mug of ale, idly watching the sky darken overhead. Something had excited the city guards, men cloaked in Whiterun-gold raced back and forth from the gates to the palace. He sighed, flexing his toes in the soles of his boots, feeling a little morose. Downstairs in his room, Vilkas was pacing, his spirit agitated. Farkas' own beast growled at the disturbance, but did not test his restraint the way Vilkas' did. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The sound of heavy marching feet caused him to snap them back open though. Eight guards paraded in formation down the palace steps, the blank-eyed sockets of their helms giving them a look of grim foreboding. Irileth herself, the Jarl's right hand, marched between them, tall and commanding. Beside her, Farkas noted with interest, was the stranger. 

Her armor, he noted in particular, was a curious blend of fur, leather and iron. Chain mail sleeves ran down her arms and between her legs, while the pauldrons looked to be made of brown wolf's fur. Wolf's teeth collared the piece, which was fastened with an iron breastplate, buckled tightly at the waist and engraved with a wolf's head. Iron gauntlets ensconced her hands and iron boots were buckled around her feet. Farkas wondered at the practicality of her dress, which left an awful lot of her uncovered. 

Aela drifted to stand by him, and peer out the window with him. "The stranger wears the Savior's Hide," she announced, her eyes round and her voice barbed with envy. 

"What?" Skjor marched over, joining them. "By the Nine," he whispered. "Is she a lycan?"

"Not so far as I can tell," Aela murmured by way of response. 

"Her heart beat is strong, stronger than any I've heard," Farkas added. "But she isn't one of us."

Skjor frowned. "How then, has she come to possess my Lord Hircine's skins?" he wondered aloud.

"Perhaps she does not know what she wears," Aela replied. "I wonder..."

Skjor snapped his head back to his Companion. "Not here." He hissed. Farkas caught his lightning stare.

 

As the stranger and Irileth marched through Whiterun, out of sight, so too did Aela and Skjor retire to their rooms. Farkas sighed.  _They're plotting again,_ he thought unhappily. The sky began to darken as night fell, and Farkas relocated to a comfier chair, by the fire. He wished the stranger well in her hunt, and stretched in his chair. Unable to find comfort in sleep, and wanting to keep away from his brother's relentless pacing, he remained in the dining hall, staring into the embers of the hearth even long after the fire had gone out. His beast tested his resolve, stretching it's own legs in the confined spaces of his man's body, and imagined running across the plains, howling to the moons. 

In the early hours before dawn, the ground began to tremble beneath his boots, and the silverware danced on the table so loudly his ears began to ring. Weapons and shields fell from their racks, clattering to the floor, and the windows shook in their panes. He leapt to his feet, reaching for his greatsword, when he heard the Voices, all four of them, booming across Tamriel.

 

**"DO VAH KIIN."**

 

He sank to his knees, clamping his hands over his ears, and prayed to the divines for the noise to stop. Filled with power, great, and terrible, the Voices rang on and on and on, until finally, the trembling stopped. At last, Mundus stood still again. He gasped, shivering a little, unable to find his legs. Skjor and Kodlak's heads appeared over the stairwell railings, one grim, one curious.

"What was that?" Skjor asked, in a voice not expecting an answer.

Kodlak's good eye fixed on Farkas, still trembling on the floor. "That," he told the two men ponderously. "Was the sound of the world, waking up."

 


	2. Jorrvaskr

The stranger lingered at Dragonsreach in the days following the tremor. The third in a month, it had been the worst so far, and the citizens of Whiterun were beginning to ask if perhaps Vvardenfell was at risk of another eruption, though no indication of any such thing came from Morrowind. Plus, there were the voices to consider. No volcano spoke. One or two people considered the Greybeards of High Hrothgar, with their dragon tongues, but none would readily admit that the men were capable of wielding that amount of power. And besides, they were said to be peaceful. 

"Vignar says a dragon attacked Helgen, ha!" Vilkas snorted one afternoon, as the brothers strolled through the city. "Myths and legends. I say the war, more like. Ulfric was reported captured outside Falkreath Hold not even a week ago. Tullius probably let Helgen burn in the battle, not that it did much good, because he escaped in the confusion..."

Out of the corner of his eye, Farkas caught a glimpse of long, copper hair. He turned his head, barely listening to Vilkas' musings. The stranger's shiny black boots were bouncing off the stairs of Dragonsreach as she descended, the wind ruffling her hair pleasantly across her face. She was garbed in a quilted blue robe, belted at the waist, no sign of her armor or weapons now. She perched on a bench beneath the Gildergreen, and began listening to Heimskr's sermon with her back to him. Even from the pathways around the temple, Farkas found he could easily distinguish the sound of her lifeblood. It made his beast restless, and he caught a long howl in his throat, coughing as Vilkas eyed him, puzzled.

It was one of his better days. His beastblood was calm, and though still troubled, he conversed easily with Farkas, without struggle. He wished dearly to be able to share whatever made him so resilient with his brother, but found himself uselessly at a loss. They rounded the temple of Kynareth and passed the Hall of the Dead, coming back into view of the Gildergreen. Heimskr had finished his impeachment of Whiterun's public and disappeared into his hut. The girl was standing quietly at the shrine of Talos, her head bowed in silent prayer. 

"...anyway, I could go for a drink at the Bannered Mare, brother, shall we head down there for a while? Ysolda's still sweet on you, I've heard." Vilkas laughed, clapping Farkas on the shoulders. 

The stranger's head snapped up at the intrusion, and Farkas' eyes found hers.

Her copper hair framed a heart-shaped face, and dusted across a clear, white brow. Her mouth was small, though full, and her lips parted in amusement revealed the barest flash of white teeth, and one sharply arched ginger brow was raised. As her smile deepened, he noted the sweetest dimple in her right cheek. Her eyes, though, were like none he'd ever seen, and he'd never see their like again. Shining silver as the purest of ingots, contrasted by heavy black outer rings, they bore into him as though all his secrets were scrawled across his face like the pages of a book. Crinkled at the corners in a grin with a look he could only describe as mischievous, they left him as soon as they had lighted upon him. Following Vilkas to the inn, he was not so dumbstruck as to miss the quickening pace of her heavy heart. If Vilkas noted his breathlessness, he didn't mention it.

 

In the morning, he sat at the breakfast table, nursing his head. He had slipped out of Ysolda's house in the early hours, cursing himself. He had no idea what had happened to Vilkas, only that he had been having a very animated discussion with Saadia regarding the wild creatures of Hammerfell. He might have been downstairs, attempting to sleep, or heading across the border with the pretty tavern wench for all he cared right now. The doors of Jorrvaskr opened, and sunlight fell across the room, and he unleashed a noise halfway between a groan and a petulant whine. The doors closed, and he blinked up at the intruder. Silver eyes regarded him pleasantly, and her nostrils flared with silent laughter as she regarded his condition.

"Good morning." she had the decency to speak softly at least. "I would like to speak with Kodlak Whitemane, if you don't mind." 

Farkas regarded his disheveled reflection in her eyes and promptly gave up on himself. "Downstairs." he grunted, and lay his forehead on the cool table. 'End of the hall. Can't miss it." Her soft footfalls as she walked away felt like mammoths trampling on his head.

Not five minutes later, his brother's dulcet tones echoed through the mead hall. 

"This isn't the time!" Vilkas growled, slamming what sounded like his fist on something hard. "I've never even heard of this outsider!"

Whatever retort Kodlak had for him, Farkas did not hear it. Vilkas stormed upstairs and out into the training yard, a stone scowl on his face. The girl followed behind him at her own pace, and the whelps close behind her, hearts fluttering with curiosity. With another groan Farkas slid from his chair and followed them outside.

 

Vilkas stood in the training yard, stiff as a mountain as the red head regarded him, sizing him up. 

"The old man said to have a look at you, so let's do this." Vilkas told her, with a shake of his head. "Just have a few swings at me so I can see your form." He smirked, drawing his short sword and strapping his shield to his foream. "Don't worry, I can take it."

The stranger's warhammer was buckled to her back, the length running from the back of her knee to the top of her pretty head. She unstrapped it, and stretched her muscles lightly, bouncing a little on her toes. Vilkas, dwarfed by Farkas, towered over her, a massive predator built for fighting. She gave her hammer a few test swings, and Farkas admired the way she used her weight to counteract the size of the weapon. In a fluid motion she swung the hammer up, over her head and pulled it close. Vilkas raised his shield in well enough time to catch the blow, but he staggered under it, caught off by the strength of the heft. "Pretty good arm you have there," he remarked. She shook her head and ducked into a crouch, swinging the hammer into Vilkas left side, faster than before but still with a slow deliberation that allowed Vilkas to catch the blow in time. Picking up speed, she swung her hammer underhand, bashing into Vilkas' shield and forcing him to stumble. Head, left, feint. Right, bash, feint. She kept her movements predictable enough for Vilkas to watch her form, but too fast for him to catch his breath or correct his footing. He got in maybe two blows with his sword, both of which the girl ducked easily. Her arms were covered in a light sheen of sweat by the time Vilkas called her off, but she was barely out of breath. Vilkas launched himself back to his feet. "Not bad. Next time won't be so easy." he warned. "You might just make it. But for now, you're still a whelp to us, new blood, and you'll do what we tell you." He tossed his sword at her feet. "Go take it up to Eorlund to get sharpened. And be careful, it's probably worth more than you are." He grinned wolfishly as he stalked back to Jorrvaskr. Farkas frowned. Vilkas knew how to be cruel with his words in ways Farkas could not wrap his head around. 

The girl, however, was nonplussed as she hefted Vilkas' sword, and caught Farkas' eye. She shrugged, silver eyes twinkling merrily with amusement, and headed up the stone stairs to the Skyforge. Farkas headed back inside. He would retire to his room, he decided, attempt to sleep the awful hangover off.

 

"Farkas!" Skjor's barking roused him, and he heaved himself to his feet in annoyance. He lumbered over to Aela's and Skjor's rooms, poking his head around the door. Three sets of eyes looked up at him expectantly. 

"Did you call me?' he asked.

"Of course we did, icebrain." Aela snapped. "Show this new blood where the rest of the whelps sleep."

He looked down at her, blinking slowly, the afternoon's events slowly coming back to him. "Oh. I remember you." he said rather lamely. "Come on. Follow me."

"Ysgramor himself wouldn't have the patience to deal with all the rabble around here." Aela huffed to Skjor as they left. 

Farkas felt a little embarrassed for the whelp. "Skjor and Aela like to tease me, but they're good people." He explained. "They challenge us to be our best. It's nice to have a new face around. It gets boring here sometimes." The girl nodded in response, lips pursed. "What's your name?" 

"Elisgird." she replied. "Soldmoorsdottir." 

"You are a Nord. I thought so, but you aren't very..." he trailed off, his face reddening. 

"Only half." she interjected. "My mother is an Imperial." she added with a fierce frown. 

Farkas looked down at her, a little bewildered. There was a scar on her chin, he noticed suddenly, bisecting her bottom lip and cutting down under jaw. He recalled the fluid precision with which she handled her warhammer earlier, suddenly apprehensive. "I hope we keep you. This can be a rough life." he opened the door to the whelp's quarters. "Alright. So here you are. Pick a bed and fall down in it." he closed his eyes, leaning against the door. "By the way, if you're looking for something to do, we've been contracted to take care of the bandits up at Valtheim Towers. They've been shaking down travelers heading east. Do you think you're up for the job?"

 


	3. Dustman's Cairn

Elisgird proved to be more than up for the job. She returned in twenty-eight hours with the bandit chief's head in a sack. Farkas raised an eyebrow as he wordlessly counted out her share of the gold, and Elisgird Soldmoorsdottir began her career in the Companions.

She never kept to a routine, he noticed. She would work, then bathe and train at Jorrvaskr for up to a week at a time, and then take off on another job. She would usually come to him for work, or begrudgingly approach Vilkas if he was busy. She kept her armor clean and polished, and her blade sharp. Sometimes she would disappear up to the Skyforge and trade Eorlund coin for teaching her to smith. In the training yard, she favored his instruction. Unlike Ria, wherever Elisgird had come from she had been given a rudimentary education in combat. She was sly, and smart, and she learned quickly enough to keep up. It took a little over a month for Vilkas to stop sneering every time Farkas mentioned Elisgird or her training. Kodlak in particular was quite fond of her, and Skjor would often watch her train, with Farkas or by herself, standing some distance away with his arms folded and his face thoughtful.

One chilly afternoon, the 27th of Frost Fall by Farkas' calendar, the big Nord parried a sly advance and thrust the little whelp to the ground with a fierce back-handed thrust. He buried his sword in the ground beside her head, fixing her with his most deadpan glare. Two silver eyes blazed furiously back up at him. "Are you sure," he asked, "That axe isn't too big for you?"

Elisgird rolled out from underneath him and lunged for her axe. Farkas darted for it, intending to sweep it out from under her, but instead she caught him by surprise, smacking his shoulder with the pommel of her weapon and spinning out of his reach. He advanced, backing her against the wall, only to watch her duck and roll between his legs and whack him on the back of the head with the flat of her blade. He stumbled, seeing stars. His beastblood growled, hackles raised. When he turned to face her, she was leaning on her axe casually, sweat rolling down her forehead. He smelled dragon's tongue and smoldering hearthfire. "I train with you," she announced, "Because you are the biggest."

Farkas grinned involuntarily. "That I am." He agreed. She smiled wryly, her heart fluttering a little they way it always did when she caught him alone.

"And I wield a battleaxe, because it's the biggest." She added. She opened her mouth to continue, but Skjor called training to a halt and she picked up her axe instead and headed inside.

After dinner, she asked for work, and he found some bounty notices and sent her off to Windhelm. In his quarters, he found a whetstone, and began sharpening his greatsword. There were a few nicks in it from stabbing it into the gravel courtyard, and he began flattening them out with the stone, listening to the smooth grinding. He pulled a long red hair out of one of the minute crevasses, and pictured her again in his mind's eye, red hair fanned about her face, full mouth parted in mock fury. _Halfling whelp,_ he thought fondly.

Skjor knocked on the wall outside, and immediately filled the doorway, shuffling in and taking a seat. "I came to ask you what you think of the newest whelp."

"Elisgird? She trains well, better than some of the rabble we've had in the past. She has a good eye for trouble, I think. She's honorable."

Skjor nodded, helping himself to mead. "There is a scholar, visiting Whiterun. I gave him an audience this morning, and he believes he knows the location of another shard of Wuuthrad." Farkas put down his sword.

"We're getting close then."

"We are. Dustman's Cairn is not too far from here. I wanted to know if you think Elisgird is ready to be Trialed." Skjor's good eye fixed on him.

"Ria has been here longer. It should be her turn."

"Ria is years behind Elisgird in terms of weapons mastery. I could not fathom anything but her defeat should she come up against The Silver Hand."

Farkas shrugged. It was not for him to say.

Skjor scowled deeply. "I know we don't often do things out of turn. But the old man grows weaker by the day. It is our duty to see this thing done before he passes. It might give him some comfort."

Farkas resumed the sharpening of his greatsword. "Very well."

"Of course, you will accompany her as Shield-Brother." The older Nord's mouth turned up at the corners. Farkas opened his mouth to object, and Skjor raised his hand. "The girl is fond of you. I believe she would lay her life down for yours, should it come to it. I can think of no better test of honor." Farkas squared his shoulders, unhappy but unwilling to show defiance. Skjor smirked. "Send her to me when she returns." Farkas felt thankful he had sent Elisgird to the other end of Skyrim. The wreck of the Winter War lay in the shallows of the south-west shores of Windhelm Hold, and it would take her a few days on foot just to reach the capital, and at least another to locate the ship. He rested his mind, subduing his beastblood and offering his brother some comfort from his own.

It was very late in evening, on the ninth day since Elisgird had departed, when he heard the doors upstairs creak open and the girl head softly down the stairs and along the silent hall. Vilkas was groaning faintly in his quarters next door, drifting in and out of an uncomfortable sleep. She appeared in the doorway, a grisly specter in the light of a single candle. Blood spattered her collar and chestplate, where it wasn't dented or scratched. She smelled only faintly of dragon's tongue, underneath the stench of hard sweat, blood and salt.

"Farkas?" she called his name hesitantly, and he realized in the low light she couldn't see him as well as she could see her, and he stirred in his armchair, gesturing her to sit beside him. She did so, releasing a satisfied sigh, stretching her legs out on the cobblestone between them.

"Looks like a rough fight," he rumbled quietly.

"Aye." She nodded, closing her eyes. "I wanted to ask you, are Companions allowed leave?"

Farkas was startled. "Leave?"

"I... There's something I need, in Ivarstead. I would like to spend some time there soon, well, as soon as possible. It's taken me this long to decide I should, and I probably shouldn't waste anymore time." She was looking at him now, imploring.

"Companions don't have leave," he smiled, taking a sip from his tankard. "If you need to take care of something, you simply do. That's how it is."

Elisgird looked away. Whatever it was that was so important, she seemed reluctant to take care of. "However," he decided to give her an easy out, at least for a while. "Skjor was looking for you, earlier."

"What does he want?" Her curiosity was piqued.

Farkas decided to play the fool. "Don't know. He just said he needed to talk to you before you do anything else." _No pressure,_ he told himself.

Elisgird nodded slowly, the way she did when she was weighing her options carefully. "Alright." She decided finally. "I had better clean up then." She stood up to leave.

"Elisgird?"

She paused. The light made shadowed valleys of her tired eyes and the thin scar down her chin. "Yes?"

"Goodnight." He told her simply, and she nodded. He listened to her heart pound as she padded softly back down the hallway.

 

~

 

Her face was grim when she found him at breakfast. "I hope you've readied yourself," he told her sternly.

"You're going to be my Shield-Brother?" Her heart thudded in her chest and her face was wrought with apprehension.

Farkas folded his arms across his chest. He couldn't afford to be friendly during a Trial. "So I'm told. Let's see if you impress."

Elisgird sat down beside him, grabbing two gourd halves with her fork. "What is _'Wuuthrad'_?"

"Ysgramor was the hero who started the Companions. Wuuthrad was his weapon." _He favored the battleaxe, just like you,_ he thought, but continued instead. He wished Vilkas had been chosen instead. His older brother was much better with his words. "He came from the ancient homeland and killed all the elves. But not all of them, because some of them are still here," he added hastily.

The halfling chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. "Why did Skjor call this my _'Trial'_?"

Farkas felt his forehead wrinkle. _So many questions._ "I watch you to make sure you are honorable. If you are, honorable and strong, then I can call you sister."

"Who was this scholar?"

Farkas shrugged. "A smart man came and told us about a blade piece. Skjor thinks you should find it, and I'm supposed to watch you."

Elisgird finished the other half of her gourd, and stood up. "I'll met you at Dustman's Cairn." Silver eyes met his fleetingly.

"Don't delay, Shield-Sister." He raised his tankard in a mock salute.

After breakfast, he dusted himself off and left the city. Elisgird had left on horseback, he noted, inhaling the smell of horseflesh. He set off for Dustman's Cairn at a steady jog. His beastblood stretched and growled inside him, protesting mildly, wanting to run. Nevertheless he made it to Dustman's Cairn by the time the sun was high in the sky, and found Elisgird lying lazily in the grass beneath a tree, horse tied to a low-hanging branch.

"Took you long enough," she greeted, shifting herself into a sitting position. The sunlight lit her hair up into a golden-copper fire, dazing him. He grunted, and held out his hand to pull her up. She accepted with a dazzling smile, making Farkas scowl. He couldn't afford to be disarmed by a pretty face. At least, not here.

The pair descended into the antechamber. Pots and urns and pickaxes were strewn everywhere, and the lack of dust made Farkas uneasy. Elisgird swooped on a chest in the middle of the room, attacking the lock with two pins pulled from her hair. It popped open with a resounding click and her eyes gleamed as she rifled through the contents for treasure. "Looks like someone's been digging here, and recently," Farkas warned, palm placed against a rough-hewn wall. "Tread lightly."

They headed down a winding corridor into a wider hallway, lined with draugr holes. "Be careful around the burial stones. I don't want to half to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back," he growled, though he couldn't picture hauling her anywhere she didn't want to go. Their forward progress was impeded by Elisgird's annoying compulsion to look inside everything. Every chest, every pot, every urn they came across was subject to her thorough inspection. Farkas, oddly enough, didn't even mind. It gave him enough time to look around and make faces at the ancient corpses, and scout ahead a little for danger.

Three still-living draugr assaulted them at the end of the hallway, crawling out of their dusty tombs, ancient armor rusted and crumbling. Back to back, the Companions defended themselves, moving together with ease. They were almost evenly matched, with the exception of the difference in their heights. Elisgird made up for that shortcoming with her nimble forward attacks, while Farkas used his lumbering size to his advantage, crushing one draugr against the wall with his weight as he slashed at a second.

The enemy dispatched, they continued through the cairn into the second chamber. It was some kind of throneroom, Elisgird deduced, with a heavy steel grate at one end barring their way through. They split up to look for the opening mechanism when the heavy grinding of rusted gears and the screech of metal on stone made Farkas' ears bleed. He turned around. Elisgird looked up at him from behind bars, sincere apology in her luminous eyes. "Now look what you've gotten yourself into," he folded his arms across his chest. "No worries. Just sit tight. I'll find the release." Someone coughed behind him. With the screeching of the gates, he hadn't noticed five bandits approach. The smooth silver of their swords reflected his face upside-down, and he heard Elisgird backing up against the wall of her prison. These weren't ordinary bandits, he realized.

They were Silver Hand.

"It's time to die, dog." The most confident of the men advanced forward, sword angled toward Farkas' neck. _Five against one,_ he counted.

"We knew you'd be coming here," the archer added, choosing his position. _If Elisgird could get out of -_

"Your mistake, Companion," the first man, porbably their leader, retorted. _No, it's impossible._

"Which one is that?" An unmistakably female voice asked, dripping with morbid curiosity. _You have one choice._

"It doesn't matter," the leader snapped. "He wears that armor, he dies." _One chance._

"Killing you will make an excellent story!" _Kodlak forgive me._

Elisgird made a sound behind him. He took a breath. "None of you will be alive to tell it," he growled, tearing off his gauntlets. He tossed them aside and ripped at his chest plate. His beastblood was already ready, he could feel it burning through his body, tearing at his muscles. Perhaps once he had found the sensation painful. Now, it felt like as relaxing as stretching after a long nap in an uncomfortable position. His limbs elongated to their full size, their true size, and his soul filled his whole body.

He howled, smelling their fear. One of them, or perhaps more than one, pissed their smallclothes. Elisgird drew a short breath behind him, her heart skipping a beat. He didn't have long to dwell on it. He tossed the two closest swordsmen to the wall, cracking his jaw in satisfaction as their necks and spines broke against the stone and their bodies crumpled to the ground. An arrow hit his shoulder and he roared, advancing on the archer. He lunged, claws ripping into her shoulders and felt her lifeblood seeping out on to the ground. The second archer's bow clattered to the floor and he leapt, feeling bones crack beneath his teeth and hot blood welling in his mouth. The leader advanced on his position, stabbing his silver sword upwards and Farkas roared again as the metal branded his flesh. In his claws, the sword snapped from the handle and he smacked it out of his assailant's hand. In his massive paws he lifted the man easily and in one fluid motion tore his head from his shoulders. He watched it roll away, snorting.

Elisgird's heart beat wildly in her chest, ringing in his ears. She stank of fear and fury, but looked up at him with clear, steady eyes, not a trace of stress on her face. He bared his teeth and snarled. Her nose wrinkled, but she took a step towards the grate, lips parted and brow furrowed with uncertainty. "Good enough,' he growled, in the rough baritone of a beast. He tore his gaze from her and darted down the corridor the Silver Hand had come through. The lever wasn't far away. He felt his beastblood folding up inside him, and the ceiling falling away as he rushed towards the ground. He gasped when he hit it. He pulled the lever, self-conscious in his nakedness as he headed back towards the throne room. Elisgird passed him his boots wordlessly. He coughed. "Hope I didn't scare ya," he tried to make his voice light, and failed.

Elisgird scratched her head. "What was that?"

"It's a... blessing. Given to some of us. We can be like wild beasts, fearsome..." He trailed off.

She held out his chest plate as he strapped his gauntlets on. "You're going to make me a werewolf?" His head snapped up. There was apprehension in her tone, and there should have been, but there was also a very small, barely audible note of hope.

"Oh. Oh, no. Only the Circle have the beastblood. Maybe... It'll take years to prove your honor to be a Companion first. _'Eyes on the prey, not the horizon'_." He suddenly remembered Jergen's favourite quote, though he hadn't heard or thought of it in years. He struggled with one of the straps under his arms, freezing as Elisgird grasped at it, threading it with her small fingers and pulling it tight. She regarded his face frankly, and he realized for a fleeting moment the depth of her trust. "We should keep moving," he announced lamely. "Still the draugr to worry about."

He turned out to be half-wrong about that. As the hallways twisted down, deep into the ground, they were assaulted by nine more Silver Hand bandits, though more easily matched this time, usually coming across pockets of only two or three at a time. Farkas wiped the sweat from his forehead as he watched Elisgird wrench her axe out of the chest of her assailant and give him a brief once over for loot before pressing against the door to the crypt.

Together, they crept down another short hallways and through another set of doors. A massive caged bridge stretched out before them, crossing a chamber filled with Silver Hand and draugr. Farkas moved forward but Elisgird thrust her arm out, barring his way. "Wait," she hissed under her breath. "Let them kill each other." Wordlessly, they crept across the bridge silently, trying not to draw attention to themselves from below.

Across the bridge was yet another hallway lined with draugr holes, and Farkas drew his dagger from his boot. As they walked, he stabbed any remaining corpses in the throat. A few satisfying death gurgles escaped from more than one, but most remained wholly dead and unmoving. The hallway curved back around and into the room under the bridge, where five Silver Hand remained alive.

_**"FUS!"** _

Farkas wasn't sure where the shout had come from, but it staggered the bandits and the Companions laid into them mercilessly. Elisgird's wide slashing cut took out two and Farkas engaged two more as Elisgird hooked the handle of her battleaxe around the fifth's head and smashed her helmet into him repeatedly. A corpse fell off of Farkas' greatsword and his jaw dropped.

"What?" She snapped, eyes ablaze. A thin trickle of blood ran down the front of her helm.

"Nothing," he replied. "I just decided to get myself some head armor."

"Did you stagger them, before?" Elisgird demanded. Farkas sheathed his sword, bewildered.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing," he spread his hands, innocent.

They moved through the tomb, on edge, jumping at every sound. In one room the door was locked tightly, and Farkas left it to Elisgird to scour the urns and chests for the key, remaining stoic and unimpressed when she managed to find it. In the room beyond they found nothing but half a dozen skeevers, nipping nastily at their ankles. The corridors grew rougher and narrower as they descended, and a cool drought made Farkas uneasy.

They broke into a cavern filled with old webs and the egg sacks of spiders, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Elisgird turned to look at him and lunged for his chest just as the spider descended from the ceiling and landed on his back, fangs piercing the skin on the back of his neck. Huge legs wrapped tightly around his body, wiry hairs tough enough to pierce the hide he wore under his armor. He heard his own roars of agony, opening his eyes to catch a glimpse of the much smaller spiders swarming Elisgird. He tried to fight the great beast on his back but the poison was wearing him down. His toes and fingers felt deathly cold, like ice was spreading through his veins. The last thing he saw before he passed out was Elisgird lunging away, several spiders still swarming behind her.

He heard the sluicing of an axe through flesh above him, and felt the creature being peeled away.

"Farkas!" Elisgird's voice sounded anxious and very far away. Warmth radiated from his neck and he groaned. The pain was returning, but at least that meant he was alive. He gazed up at her, heavy lidded. Silver eyes were set tightly in concentration, her usually soft pout a thin, white line in her face. The golden aura around everything told him she was healing him with magic, and he halfheartedly tried to protest. Flustered, she hushed him impatiently, soothing him into sleep.

He woke up cold, but alive, on the filthy floor of the spider cavern. Elisgird had fallen asleep against the rocky wall, his head in her lap. He listened for a while to her shallow breaths, before raising one hand shakily and gently caressing her cheek. Startled, her eyes snapped open and her fingers threaded through his, warm against his cool hands. "We should keep going," she told him. "How do you feel?"

His mouth was dry, his head pounded, and he still felt chilled to the bone, but he got to his feet and waited for the world to stop spinning. "Ready." He grunted softly, hefting the weight of his sword. They had to get out of here.

The next few halls were draugr-lined, but Elisgird advanced ahead of him and he let her. There weren't many, and he was confident she could take care of herself. At last, they reached the bottom of the cairn. The scholar hadn't been lying at least. Elisgird picked up the fragment with great care, as though it might shatter between her fingers and become dust beneath their boots. She wrapped it in linen and tucked it inside her chestplate, under her collar bone.

She turned to the cairn behind her, and trailed her fingers along the old script.

"A Word Wall," Farkas informed her. "No one's been able to read them for centuries. At least, that's what Vilkas says."

Elisgird perched on the now empty altar. "Quethsegol vahrukiv kiir jun Jafnhar wo los ag nahlaas naal yol do lot dovah Lodunost," she looked over at him, and he shuddered. Her silver eyes burned slowly yellow-orange, as though reflecting a great inferno. Her glare burned into him, as though she were reading his very soul. "The stone commemorates the child king Jafnhar, who was burned alive by fire of the great dragon, Lodunost." The flames in her eyes burned so intensly Farkas felt as though he, too, might perish from fire. He withered, unable to look away, until at last Elisgird blinked, and the light began to die, slowly returning to warm silver.

"You can read the Words." His voice was an accusation, and Elisgird flinched.

"I can."

He had no time to force an explanation out of her, as the coffins lining the walls began to erupt with draugr. With a battlecry he leapt into action, slashing and slicing at the undead, anger flaring deep in his stomach.

_**"YOL."** _

He watched over his shoulder as Elisgird shouted, a great spout of fire erupting from her jaw like the dragons from the old stories. He stabbed his greatsword into the skull of a draugr, and watched the last of them writhe and die, Elisgird's fire blistering its withered skin until it crumbled to ash and bone on the stones. "That was your Shout." He accused again. "Now, and before."

Elisgird spread her arms. "As you have shown me your secret, so I have shown you mine." Her glare was hard, and Farkas reeled from it. Not that long ago, she had been looking up at him with trust, and honesty.

He took a deep breath. "Nords should not use magic." His argument sounded weak even to him.

"I'm only half a Nord," she sneered. "Should I, then, have left you on the cavern floor to die of spider bite?"

Self-consciously he rubbed the two small scabs on the back of his neck from the spider's pincers. "I'm glad you didn't," Farkas told her sheepishly.

Her voice filled with compassion. "So am I." She walked up the steps to the balcony overlooking the cairn, and pulled a lever on the wall. One of the coffins slid away, grinding noisily into the ground. Farkas had to double over and tuck his arms in front of him to crawl through the shoddy tunnel, but when they emerged, they were back in the antechamber, and walked out via the front door.

Secunda was peeking out shyly behind Masser, and the Southern Lights glimmered across the plains as they emerged from Dustman's Cairn. Farkas held out his arm for Elisgird and pretended not to notice her heart skip a beat as she wrapped her forearm around his. Though her feet had steadied, Farkas let his hand linger on her elbow, and Elisgird sank into his chest, silver eyes turning upwards to meet his, an unspoken question on her lips. She pulled off her helmet with her free hand and dropped it, suddenly gasping.

Farkas whirled around. The grizzled specter of some long-dead Nord and his horse galloped by, silent as the grave. He was headless, upright on his mount, with the reigns in one hand and the other on his hip. Elisgird's mouth had widened in a surprised smile and her eyes filled with mischievous glee. "Let's go!" She demanded breathily, and without waiting for a response, mounted her horse and took off down the road after the ethereal warrior. With a grin and a dark chuckle, Farkas followed.

 

~

 

Dawn had not yet broken when they returned to Whiterun, laughing about skeletons and headless horsemen. Elisgird had walked her horse, so they could walk together. Though he was a Nord, used to the cold, the frostbite spider's poison had not yet fully worn off, and Elisgird's warmth was as good an excuse as any to touch her. In the quiet of the stable she held his face in her hands, and he pressed his cold nose against her cheek. "You have the strongest heartbeat of any I've every heard," he told her drowsily. 

"The heart of a dragon, probably," Elisgird replied lightly, poking fun at herself. 

"I can't say I've ever heard one of those," Farkas replied. He grasped her small hands in his. "Let's head back in. I need a hot bath, I think."

The small Nord jabbed a finger into his chest. "And an antidote," she told him sternly. "I'll bring it to you out of my personal supply. Your brother will have my hide for breeches if your toes fall off in your sleep."

"I'll have your hide if _anything else_ falls off in my sleep," he warned slyly, laughing as she rolled her eyes. 

Vilkas was waiting for them on the steps of Jorrvaskr when they got there. Farkas' cheerful mood drained away from him and Elisgird stiffened next to him, no longer touching. 

His older brother cleared his throat, addressing the smaller Companion. "We've been awaiting your return."

"Why were you waiting for me?" Elisgird asked, confused.

Vilkas shook his head. "Come." He ordered.

Farkas bounded up the stairs ahead of her, holding his breath. In the courtyard behind the mead hall, the Inner Circle was waiting. Farkas took his place. 

Elisgird stepped into the light, eyeing them all with wariness. 

Kodlak smiled at her, and some of the tension left her shoulders. "Brothers and sisters of the Circle. Today, we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold."

A smile spread across her face slowly, as she realized what was to come.

"This woman has endured, has challenged, and has shown her valor. Who will speak for her?" Kodlak raised his arms to his Companions.

Farkas stepped forward. "I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us," he announced, for once finding the words he so often struggled with easily.

"Would you raise your shield in her defense?"

He straightened his back. "I would stand at her back, that the world might never overtake us."

"And would you raise your sword in her honor?" 

"It stand ready to meet the blood of her foes." He told them, and he meant it. 

Kodlak nodded. "And would you raise a mug in her name?"

Farkas grinned. "I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall reveled in her stories." _Because some day, it will._

"Then the judgement of this Circle is complete. Her heart beats with the fury and the courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call."

"It shall be so," the others murmured. Farkas hung back, thinking he might catch her alone, but Kodlak beat him to it. A faint smile playing on his lips, he headed inside to bed. After all, there would be years to come. 


	4. Blood and Keys

At Kodlak's insistence, Farkas left early the following morning. The Harbinger was borrowing some books from Jarl Elisif's court wizard regarding the Glenmoril Wyrd. He rented a room at The Winking Skeever and spent the early evening polishing his armor. In the morning, he ordered a bath in his room and gave himself a good wash. He loathed appearing at court, especially in Solitude. The stiffly robled nobles annoyed him, looking down their noses at the common folk, making decisions that had little bearing on them and too much on their people.  

Sybille Stentor accepted him in her study. The swirling black curls of her hair beneath her dark hood reminded Farkas of snakes and her orange eyes had slits for pupils. She fetched him the books, neatly boxed, eyeing him the whole time as though he were a meal. His skin crawled when her fingertips brushed his hand. "It's been a _pleasure._ " She purred. Farkas wondered if he had time to go back to The Winking Skeever for another bath. 

He decided to take a carriage back to Whiterun, hoping to at least make it back before dawn. He sat as far back as he could, praying to Talos that the horse wouldn't catch his scent and startle. He liked horses, he had enjoyed riding as a small boy, but horses could smell the beastblood and it made them skittish. Even Elisgird's horse had shied away from him, attempting to bolt a few times. Elisgird ended up giving him a long reign to walk on as they walked back to Jorrvaskr from Dustman's Cairn.  

At the Whiterun stables, Farkas paid the driver and set off up the hill towards the city gates, when he heard the howling. It came across the farmland, from the forests of The Pale. _Pain,_ the howl said. _Anguish and suffering._ He doubled over, his own beastblood pounding. He could barely contain it, it was tenfold worse than the agony Vilkas suffered daily – _Vilkas._ He had to get to his brother. He clenched his teeth and ran.  

Vilkas was curled up on the floor of the dining howl, snarling at Kodlak and Vignar. Kodlak was groaning, rocking back and forth in his chair, holding his head. Farkas dropped his pack at the door and knelt beside his twin.  

"Farkas," Vilkas gasped. "Skjor and Aela... Elisgird... the Under... under..." 

"Get the old man to his room," Farkas snapped at Vignar.  

"...offered her the blood," Vilkas groaned. 

All the blood in Farkas' body froze. Elisgird Soldmoorsdottir was hunting with Aela and Skjor in The Pale as a freshly-turned beast. Skjor's impatience to rush her Trial made more sense now. He needed more recruits for his war against The Silver Hand, since Vilkas and Farkas had decided to strictly cease their transformations with Kodlak, reducing his little army to a party of two. Elisgird had worn the Savior's Hide, Hircine's skin, and they had found their champion.  

"Where are they?" Farkas asked, his voice black with anger.  

"I don't know," his brother gasped. "They did it... in secret." 

 _Of course they did._ Farkas gathered his brother up in his arms as best he could, half-carrying, half-dragging him to his quarters. He saw him to his bed as best he could and went back upstairs, pacing the length of the mead hall, over and over. He tried to imagine the small woman as a beast, and failed. He tried to tell himself he was glad that Aela and Skjor were with her, guiding her, but the truth was it didn't help. It should have been his guidance, he was her mentor; according to their traditions it should have been _his_ blood. Skjor had taken her out of turn, and it was all wrong. It should never have happened.  

 

"Farkas." He woke with a start. Vilkas was standing over him, looking pale and worried. "Did you sleep here last night?" 

He was in a chair, he had sat down, hunched over the fire before dozing off.  

"I waited all night." 

Vilkas nodded, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "They didn't come home." It wasn't a question. "You should -" 

He was cut off mid-sentence by the door opening. Elisgird took two steps and collapsed on her knees, the door slamming shut behind her. Two identical pairs of frosted blue eyes regarded her warily.  

Her breaths were shallow and erratic. She was covered from head to toe in dark, dry blood, crusting in her hair and under her nails. Her eyes swam from brother to brother, as if not really seeing them. 

"Skjor's dead." Her voice croaked and broke.  

In the end it was Vilkas who rushed forward, grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her downstairs, calling for Tilma. The howl of her beastblood filled his head, echoed by his own. He abruptly closed the door on his beast, turned it off, shut it down. He did not want to hear her pain.  

 

He didn't see Vilkas again until dinner. His brother took his usual place beside him. Most of the Companions were missing, grieving alone in their own ways.  

"Did you hear me?"  

Farkas looked up suddenly. "I'm sorry. What?"  

"I said, the girl has gone to Ivarstead. She doesn't know when she'll be back. You seem fond of her, I wanted you to know." Vilkas sat back in his chair. He didn't touch the food.  

Farkas made a non-committal grunt.  

Aela crept up behind them, and seated herself on the opposite side of the table. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. He hadn't even noticed her return to Jorrvaskr.  

"What were you thinking?" Vilkas hissed. "You had no right -" 

"Don't you dare lecture me!" Aela gripped the tabletop in her fingertips. "Have you even seen yourself lately? Since you started denying your nature? You think you're too good for Hircine's Gift, too good for the hunting grounds, and he has punished us for it by taking one of our own!" 

"You dare blame my brother?" Farkas thundered back. "Running around, transforming behind Kodlak's back, giving the beastblood to whoever you damn well please? Hircine should have struck you down -" 

"The girl is Hircine's chosen!" Aela shrieked back. "She wore the Savior's Hide, before she ever met Skjor. Elisgird was sent to us, a champion to defeat The Silver Hand!"  

"Enough!" Vilkas barked. "You barely contained her. She mauled a city guard within minutes of losing you on the plains." 

Aela tossed her head. "So? Your brother -" she stabbed at finger at Farkas "- killed a farmer, on his first night. That man had a family. You have to see that woman and her child every day in the marketplace, Vilkas. Do you think she wonders if the beast that killed him walks on two legs as a defender of Skyrim by day?" 

Farkas stood up so quickly his chair crashed to the ground behind him. "Kodlak is right." He sounded flat even to his own ears. "We deceive ourselves. The beastblood is no Gift. It's a curse."  

Aela and Vilkas continued throwing insults across the table as Farkas left. He dragged his feet to the end of the hallway and knocked on the door of Kodlak's study. 

"Enter, my boy." The old man always knew who it was. 

Farkas closed the door behind him and heaved his body into Kodlak's companion armchair. The Harbinger was nose deep in a dusty tome, fingertips stained black with ink from his quill as he took notes. "You are blessed with quiet pain, it seems." Farkas had no reply. "Much more dignified than your dear brother and your Shield-Sister upstairs, hmm?"  

"I suppose."  

"Vilkas tells me Elisgird has gone to Ivarstead. Never stays in one place for too long, that one. Hard work is good for the soul. I have always thought so, anyway." He paused his reading to scratch letters on the parchment.  

"Skjor's soul..." Farkas began, unsure where to go next. 

"Hircine will claim it for his Hunting Grounds, yes. You needn't grieve for him, Farkas, it was his greatest wish. Aela's too." 

Farkas rubbed his neck, thoughtful. "But not yours?" 

Kodlak placed a marker in his book, and closed it. Farkas watched the little clouds of dust swirling out of the bindings. "No. I am a Nord, as you are. I have always wished to go to Sovngarde, and spend my eternal days in the mead hall of Aetherius, restored to my youth by Shor, drinking side by side with Ysgramor and the heroes of old." Kodlak closed his eyes, as if he could find such a place behind his eyelids.  

"Have you found anything in the witch's books?" He wanted to know. 

Kodlak smiled, eyes still closed. "Perhaps. Sybille is a mage, Farkas, not a witch... the distinction is very important, remember that."  

They sat in companionable silence, quietly mourning their dead Shield-Brother, until Kodlak gave out a very soft snore. Farkas fetched a blanket from the Harbinger's room, and tucked it around the old man's shoulders. He stirred gently. "The girl is the key." He mumbled, so softly Farkas wasn't sure if he imagined it. 


	5. Restless

Tremors and earthquakes plagued Skyrim through the winter. Farkas relished the cold, finding excuses to take jobs in Winterhold and Windhelm, where he could stand in the snow in his bare feet and let it melt around his toes. Vilkas thought he was mad, but he didn’t mind. The cold gave him strength, cleared his head and let him think clearly for a time, while his beast blood shivered in the back of his mind.

He was angry, he realized, hunting a frost troll back to its lair not far from the Windhelm city walls. Traditionally, Companions gave their blood in order of succession. Kodlak had given blood to Skjor, who had given his blood to Aela, and she turned Vilkas, until his brother, though freshly turned himself, had passed the Gift down to him. Rightly, it should have been his blood to share with Elisgird; his turn to share the bonds of beast-hood. He would have handled her gently, eased her into the hunt. _Damn Skjor,_ he snarled internally. Traditions were only worth following when Skjor agreed with them.

He felt guilt, too, for feeling so wronged. Aela had not stolen Elisgird from him, he knew and understood that. His feelings of anger and loathing were irrational. It was the pain he couldn’t stand to face. Skjor had been his mentor for as long as he and Vilkas had been with the Companions. When Aela and Elisgird had howled across the plains, calling for their brothers, his beast had nearly ripped his skin off. He should have gone to be with his sisters. When Elisgird had come back to Jorrvaskr, soaked in the blood of the Silver Hand, he had known his mistake then. He should have been there. He should have been fighting alongside them.

Elisgird returned from Ivarstead in late Suns’ Dawn, missing the last of the worst earthquakes by a week’s margin. Farkas knew her by the wandering smell of dragon’s tongue and fire, and now as well the thick, copper scent of a blooded beast. Her heart burned away in her chest more furiously than before. She embraced Aela first, and they clamped hands on each other’s shoulders, sharing unspoken grief. His eyes found hers briefly, and she gave him a small nod in greeting.

Jorrvaskr was full of songs and merriment that night, but it felt shallow and forced, as the Inner Circle were all still grieving quietly. When he finally retired to bed all he could do was stare at the ceiling, listening to Vilkas tossing and groaning in his room nearby. Farkas was frustrated. Three months had passed since he’d seen her face. Three months since he had stood before the Inner Circle and spoken for her, watching her mouth part with awe and smelled her desire. He had let her down afterwards, he knew, but he had expected to be forgiven. He had expected her to understand.

He listened to her pacing the hallways, when she should have been sleeping. He slipped from his bed and waited for the sound of her footsteps to pass by. As she reached the outside of his quarters he pulled open his door and grabbed her gently by the shoulder, and then closed it behind her. Her skin burned hot beneath the palm of his hand.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered softly to his chest. Farkas was surprised, he had expected resistance.

“It’s the beast blood,” he explained. “It never sleeps. It never rests. It craves the hunt, always.”

Her whole body shook against his, and he wrapped his arms around her, offering comfort. When she finally pulled away he sat down quietly on his bed, watching her explore his room. He had built the small bar himself, as well as the cabinet that housed his collection of rare meads and ales. Elisgird brushed her fingers across the dusty labels curiously.

“Did you find what you were looking for in Ivarstead?” he asked.

Elisgird nodded slowly, before answering. "I made the pilgrimage up the Seven Thousand Steps to the monastery of High Hrothgar."

 _The tremors._ "You learned to Shout from the Greybeards," he surmised.

"I did." She agreed, sitting heavily down beside him. Her fingers played gently with his, feeling impossibly large in her small hands. “I didn’t intend to stay long, but during the winter the monastery doors were iced shut. Master Arngeir did not take kindly to me Shouting fire at them. He called it a _brutish use of my talents_.” Elisgird snorted, though there was fondness in her voice. “The doors thawed out not long ago, and I left. I think the Greybeards were as relieved as I was, to tell you the truth.”

Farkas smiled softly. “You were missed here. How did you control your beast blood?”

“It’s… it’s hard.” Elisgird paused. “I had to, though. I couldn’t… not in front of them.” Farkas understood. “When I left though, I hunted for a few days as a beast. I tried to be careful, but it felt good. To let it out. And I was afraid I’d lose control if I didn’t. I know of a beast who couldn’t control himself, cursed by Hircine. I didn’t want that.”

She was speaking of course, of Sinding, but Elisgird didn’t know the Companions knew about that. He wondered what Elisgird had done with the Savior’s Hide, and decided he was better off not knowing.

“You won’t have to worry about it forever,” he told her reassuringly. “Kodlak will find a cure.” His beast blood whined longingly in his head, and he swallowed. Elisgird could hear and smell exactly as well as he could.

“I’ll be glad when he does.” She pressed her face into his shoulder.

Farkas felt heat rise in his face. Aela had been the only female in their family for as long as he could remember.

"You remind me of a proper Nord, from one of my father's stories," her voice was quiet, and her eyes shone like liquid pools of silver in the dim candlelight.

Farkas felt a silly grin stretch across his lips. "What’s a proper Nord, according to Soldmoor then?"

Elisgird’s fingers wound through his hair, making his body feel curiously limp. She sat up, and let him stretch out on his bed as best he could. "Well, according to my father, when he sat me on his lap...” she affected a Windhelm accent, “ _'Ellie, my girl, don't worry about these girly saps yer mother's always promising you. When ye come of age, we'll go home to Skyrim, and find you a real Nord. He'll ha' fur armor, like your Da an' your Gran'da used to wear, chest bare even in the bitterest weather. He'll be so warm the ice will melt under his boots, and ye'll never be cold, even when there's a blizzard outside the front door and you can't see two feet in front of yer fer snow. Instead of gold and silks, he'll bring you bear furs and mammoth tusks on yer wedding day, and you can be sure as bones he killed 'em and skinned 'em 'imself. That's the kind o' husband ye want, my lass. These Imperial lordlings'll never do, nevermind what yer Ma says, now'_..." She laughed at the memory, a smile as warm as sunshine lighting up her face.

“What was he like?” he asked idly, fiddling with the soft end of one of Elisgird’s braids.

“Big, maybe not quite as big as you. He had long red hair like mine, but he wore it in warrior’s braids. He used to say there was one for every man he killed. He was always hot, like there was a furnace under his skin. When I was little, he would walk around the house with me on his shoulders, until mama would scold him, in case I hit my head on the ceiling. Whenever he was home, he would take me everywhere with him. I had lessons with my tutors in his study, while he worked at his desk. If he was visiting his warehouses, I’d go with him. For a while he’d take me on the back of his horse, and when I got too big he gave me my first pony. He trained me and my brother to fight himself; he didn’t trust any of mama’s staff.”

“I get the feeling he was an axe-man himself,” Farkas yawned.

Elisgird regarded him slyly. “Da’s weapon of choice was a flail,” she replied, smirking as Farkas’ eyes widened. “You don’t tend to come across them in Skyrim. He also trained me privately with a dagger. He would say that life was far more dangerous for a lovely young woman than any man in the world, and that I wouldn’t always be in a position to reach for my sword. Once I had some skill he would sneak up on me and catch me by surprise, and if I didn’t have my dagger at his throat in five heartbeats he would scold me. I used to loathe it, but one night when I was much older, and he’d been drinking, he confessed to me -” she paused, swallowing. “His first wife, before my mother, she was raped by bandits while he was away. She killed herself before he returned. He said she couldn’t bear living with the shame.”

He tried to imagine the man that Elisgird described. "Where is he now? Still in Cyrodiil with your mother?"

"He's dead." She sounded so young as she told him, and deeply unhappy. "He died a long time ago. He was killed by pirates off the coast of Sadrith Mora. He seemed to be under the impression that sailing up the channel and crossing the Sea of Ghosts to get to Ald Velothi would be safer than making his way there on foot. He was wrong. He gave me to his right-hand man and ordered us to escape. I never saw him again."

Farkas grabbed a bottle of mead and a goblet on his bedside table, and popped the cork. He passed the cup to Elisgird and raised the bottle in a mock toast. "To fathers that never come home," he said. Elisgird tipped her mead in his direction. "At least your mother let you come to Skyrim, instead of forcing you to marry some horribly loathsome Imperial."

Elisgird choked on her drink. "Oh, no. No, that's not what happened at all."

Farkas was taken aback. "Do you have some Imperial husband waiting for you to come home?"

"Fiancé." She made a face. "Mother gave away my hand before Da was cold in his grave. I met my future husband once, and that was more than enough for me. I did a Barenziah, and ran away to Skyrim."

Farkas chuckled. "That'd make anyone's old man proud."

Roses bloomed in Elisgird's cheeks. "You think so?" Her smile could be dazzling, when she wanted. She sipped her mead quietly. “Will you tell me about Jergen? Was he really your father?”

The big Nord sighed. “Vilkas and I were six when he left. I don’t know for sure if he was our father, maybe an uncle or an older cousin. But at least before that, he was the only father I knew. He was always laughing at something. Sometimes, when Vilkas laughs, it feels like he’s right there behind me.”

They talked for hours, the kind of easy conversation that passed between old friends in the darkest hours of the morning. They traded stories of childhood, intense battles, and good friends. As the night drew to a close, they found themselves drifting off into small bouts of sleep and waking suddenly when their beasts disturbed them. "Oh, I forgot," Elisgird murmured sleepily. She rolled over him, feeling around on the floor for something. He let his eyes wander along the contour of her ass. "Here."

In his palm, she pressed a finely wrought silver ring. Farkas normally left jewelry-wearing to women, but wisely kept his mouth shut as he inspected it closely. The band had been carved with Nordic runes depicting two fearsome beasts locked in battle. "I made it," Elisgird told him, a puffed-up note of pride in her voice. "It's enchanted with resistance to poison.”

Farkas clenched it in his fist, unsure what to say. _Sybille is a mage, Farkas, not a witch. The distinction is important._ Kodlak's words resounded in his mind, and he felt the warmth of Elisgird's healing magic in his blood in Dustman's Cairn. He slid it on the middle finger of his left hand, and waited for Shor's lightning to fall from the sky and strike him, right through the stone above his head.

It did not.

Elisgird laughed and rolled her eyes at him.

"Thank you, _Ellie,_ " He retorted, only half-sarcastically, laughing as her eyes widened and a scowl crossed her face.

Still, her fingers twined with his and her air of smug pride lightened the heavy feeling in his heart.


	6. Wine and Silver

They woke early, Farkas daring to hope the others would ignore Elisgird’s presence in his room. Aela’s green eyes landed on him from across the hall and he swore under his breath. “Good morning, brother,” she greeted him cheerfully, falling into step beside him.

“Morning.” He grumbled. He didn’t think anything was good about mornings at all, except maybe the frost on the windows.

“I have some errands for our youngest shield sister to run,” she told him, a warning edge in her voice. “If she asks for work, send her to me. Please.”

“Very well.” Farkas responded. _Whatever she’s up to, I don’t want to know,_ he decided. He spent the morning running errands in the city for Kodlak, and returned to Jorrvaskr to watch the whelps training. Vilkas, to his surprise, was sparring one-on-one with Elisgird. Kodlak settled himself into a chair in the sun, while Farkas leaned against the roof supports. The sun was pleasantly warm on his face, and standing up on the steps gave him a good view.

The pair circled each other defensively. Blood on the shaft of Elisgird’s axe caught his nose and eyes; the callouses on her hands had split again. Her mouth was set in a thin line, and her forehead glistened with sweat, but no pain showed on her face. His brother on the other hand was positively dripping, red-faced and puffing, but his features remained relaxed.

“They are well matched,” Kodlak observed quietly, and Farkas dipped his head in agreement. Wherever Elisgird had spent the last three months she had not been idle. At a half circle, Vilkas began to squint and Elisgird lunged – she had been waiting for the sun to hit Vilkas’ eyes. With a battle-cry that sent his heart racing she brought her axe down on her shield brother’s shoulder, and with an answering cry he managed to thrust his greatsword up and block her advance – barely. The girl twisted out from under his block and drew her scramasax, pressing it to Vilkas’ throat and dropping her axe. His sweat turned to icicles where the edge met his skin and he swallowed.

“Yield.” She snarled.

Vilkas gnashed his teeth, hissing something Farkas didn’t catch. Elisgird’s eyes flashed silver fire and he slowly lowered his sword, stepping away from the shining blade edge.

“Well met, sister.” Vilkas held out his arms, letting his sword clatter on the cobblestones. Elisgird turned on her heel and began to storm away. “Unfortunately, the first rule of battle is to _never drop your weapon!_ ” Vilkas lunged for her battle axe like lightening and tossed it at the girl’s back. Farkas barked his outrage but Elisgird caught the shaft on the fly and whipped back around, sweeping her blade at Vilkas’ midsection with heart-stopping accuracy. His twin dove beneath the blow and rolled across the ground to where he’d left his own sword and the fight was back on. Sparks danced across the pavement as blades clashed, ringing like bells across the training yard.

“What are you thinking, my dear boy?” Farkas was suddenly aware of Kodlak’s eyes fixed on him, and he looked down at the ground sheepishly.

“I was thinking that Elisgird has greatly improved since her trial. Skjor would be proud.”

Kodlak’s face turned back to the fight. Elisgird ducked through Vilkas’ widespread legs and caught him between the shoulders with the pommel of her axe; a tactic that had once caught Farkas off-guard and brought her victory. “Indeed, I’m glad to know it.” The old man told him, pleased. “Did you learn anything when Elisgird spent the night in your quarters, young Farkas?”

Farkas’ face turned scarlet and he looked over at Kodlak guiltily. To his surprise the old man let out a barking laugh, banging his fist on the armrest of his chair. “You young people are far too serious for your own good. Don’t worry,” he added swiftly, raising his hand as Farkas began to protest. “I know you were only talking. Talking is good for you Farkas, you spend far too much time in your own head.”

“I just thought… she’s too restless to sleep with the other whelps. And Skjor’s room is still…” he trailed off.

“Yes. Well. That’s another matter for another time.” Kodlak rumbled pleasantly. “It warms an old man’s heart to watch his brothers and sisters getting along. I think I’ll head inside, it’s about time I made some headway with my research.”

“Of course, Kodlak. Let me know if you need anything.”

He headed back inside Jorrvaskr, twiddling his thumbs behind his back and whistling _Ragnar the Red_ as went. A wry smile crept across Farkas’ lips and he turned his eyes back to the fight.

After dinner, Elisgird disappeared to bathe and clean the sweat from her armor and Farkas retired to his rooms with Vilkas.

“I tell you brother,” Vilkas was saying. “There’s nary a woman in Skyrim that could fight like that for so long.” Not even sour Vilkas could keep the admiration from his voice as he prattled on about the fight. Farkas listened patiently, enjoying the rare distracted mood.

“How did it start anyway?” he asked his brother absently, perusing his mead collection.

His brother’s face twisted sheepishly, catching Farkas’ attention. The bigger twin raised an eyebrow.

“I made a lurid comment – about her sleeping with you. Last night.” He didn’t meet his younger brother’s eye. “She leapt to your defense. I think she was defending your honor.”

Farkas opened his mouth to slander his brother’s honor, when there was a knock at the door. He shuffled across the room and poked his head out. “Elisgird?”

The halfling swung a bottle of something interesting in his face and peered around the door at Vilkas. “Am I interrupting?” she asked curiously.

Vilkas grinned. “No.”

“Argonian bloodwine?” Farkas squinted at the label, his mouth watering.

Elisgird shrugged. “Someone left it for the Greybeards. They don’t drink, had no use for it. Arngeir thought I might want it.” She sat down heavily in the armchair he kept in the corner, fluffing her damp hair out. Farkas rooted around under his bar for his favorite goblets, and poured wine for three.

“Reminds me of that awful weekend we spent in Riften, right after our fifteenth name day,” Vilkas smacked his lips, swirling the deep violet liquid gently in his cup.

Farkas groaned. “That was your fault,” he accused his brother.

“What was?” Elisgird asked interestedly, sipping her wine slowly.

“Well I might’ve still been _whelp-ish_ at fifteen,” Vilkas began dramatically.

“You were,” Farkas insisted. “Danica Nilskrsdottir used to call you ‘volcano face’ and run away from you because she thought your pimples would all erupt like Vvardenfell,”

“Yes, thank you, brother.” He bowed his head gracefully as Elisgird spat wine down her shirt, laughing. “As I said, I was still a whelp, but my dearest brother here had mostly blossomed into the man we know today, and was able to fool the bartender there into bringing liquor to our room.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say I _blossomed_ -” Farkas interrupted hotly, silenced by a finger from Elisgird.

“Anyway, Talen-Jai is the bartender at the Bee and Barb in Riften city, and he has a good head for mixing alcohol. Farkas did all the ordering and the buying and no-one batted an eye of course, until I stumbled downstairs, drunk as a silt-strider demanding to know what was taking so long.”

“That was when Skjor -”

“Yes, yes, Skjor was supposed to be watching us, but he’d slipped off to the local bunkhouse, I forget what it was called back then. Anyway, he’d gone there to see what all the fuss was about and he came back in a worse mood than when he’d gone in. I should probably mention we were there as extra security for the young Jarl’s coronation; the city was overflowing with people and there were no spare rooms in town. Talen-Jai booted the three of us out and Skjor dragged us into the woods outside the city gates where we set up camp for the night. We hadn’t brought sleeping skins because we had booked our room at the inn well in advance, and so we slept in the dirt.

“In the morning, Skjor made us get up before dawn and shine our armor, and as punishment for getting him kicked out too, he made us do his as well. Then we had to go back to Mistveil Keep and stand guard for the ceremony, which went for about six hours with all the speeches and pompous nonsense that the wealthy ranks put up with.”

“I don’t suppose you had a nice hangover to go with all of that?” Elisgird grinned wickedly at the brothers.

“It felt like Mehrunes Dagon himself was prizing my brain out through my eye sockets with his own Razor. But Skjor made it very clear if he heard so much as a whimper out of either of us, we would be begging for death by the end of the day. So, we kept our mouths shut.”

“The ceremony wasn’t so bad,” Farkas added. “But the hunt, afterwards -”

“Oh yes, the celebratory hunt. It was voluntary, but Skjor said it would be dishonorable to decline the Jarl’s generous invitation. We hadn’t taken the beast blood then, so the stable hand brought us horses, thinking we might like to ride.” Vilkas shook his head, horrified by the memory. “The hunting party stayed out until dawn the next day. The dogs barking, the horns blowing, the horse fidgeting underneath the saddle… I stopped to throw up at least twice. I’d never seen Farkas look so green, and haven’t since. Thankfully when we got back, Skjor decided it was time to return to Jorrvaskr. He didn’t say anything to us, just asked if we’d learned our lesson. I don’t think he ever even told Kodlak.”

Elisgird drained her goblet, and set it back down on the bar. “It’s hard to believe the two of you ‘learned’ anything,”

The older twin laughed heartily. “’Course not, lass. When we turned sixteen, we took the blood. The youngest in Companion history. Head right on down the hall and ask Kodlak himself if he regrets it, and see if he gives you a straight answer.”

Farkas snorted derisively. “Won’t get one.” He corked the wine and made space for it in his cabinet, self-conscious of Elisgird’s heavy-lidded gaze.

Vilkas groaned, stretching his muscles, and cracking the bones in his jaw. “Rough business, training today.” He winked at the girl. “Anytime you want a rematch, just let me know. Goodnight.” With a nod at his brother he swept through the doorway and into the dark hallway, gently closing the door behind him.

Elisgird beamed up at him. “I think he likes me,” The big Nord agreed, wiping out the used silverware and putting them away. “I came to ask you something,” she added. “Not that I didn’t enjoy the story.”

“He’s a much better talker than me,” Farkas agreed. He didn’t mention how long it had been since he and Vilkas had reminisced like that.

“I need to look for something, in one of those old Nordic ruins, like Dustman’s Cairn.”

“Another piece of Wuuthrad?” Farkas asked, interested.

“No, something for the Greybeards. An old hunting horn.”

He leaned with his back against the bar, folding his arms across his chest. “What’s that got to do with me?” he wanted to know.

Elisgird untucked her feet and sat up straighter in the armchair. “I was hoping you would come with me. As my shield-brother.”

Instinctively, he was up for it. “Aela needs you for something.” He told her instead. “I wouldn’t mind going with you, but I don’t like making her angry.”

“That’s all right,” she responded affably. “It’s nothing urgent.”

“You’ll let me know when you go?”

“I will.” Elisgird rubbed her eyes. She stood up suddenly, and made for the door. Farkas’ beast growled, and he reached for her urgently, catching her shoulders.

He caught a whiff of her fear, her excitement. “Don’t.” he warned.

The purple bruises around her eyes made them look brighter. His beast whined, a low, keening sound. “Move.” She rasped. He let her go and she darted around him, running down the hallway for the stairs. He followed on her heels, his beast blood boiling in his veins, the monster snarling in his head. She made it to the Underforge, tearing her worn tunic over her head and erupting in an avalanche of silver-white fur. Farkas stopped in his tracks, startled. He’d been expecting a smaller, russet-red female, like Aela. Beasts were supposed to match their hosts’ hair and were sized appropriately for the body they lived in – or so he’d been told. Elisgird’s beast would have matched Skjor for size and strength. He watched her lope across the plains towards Winterhold, chasing down a massive stag. His beast beat against his mental restraints, but he refused to give in. He watched her for a while, she was easy to spot with Masser’s light reflecting off her back.

He returned to the Underforge and folded her discarded garments, and set himself down with his back against the stone. He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke, the clothes were gone, and he was still alone.


	7. The Shattered

During the coming weeks, Farkas saw less and less of Elisgird. She spent most of her nights in Aela’s quarters, and even more of her time was spent away. Vilkas was certain they were scheming behind Kodlak’s back. Farkas was more concerned about the apparent lack of control Elisgird had over her beast.

“It could have been the bloodwine,” Vilkas grumbled. He was having one of his worse days. “Intoxication has put you over the edge in the past. You haven’t given in in months, could you even imagine what it would be like for you to lose control at this point?”

“I did, in Dustman’s Cairn. Coming back was easy enough.” Farkas reminded him.

Vilkas rolled his eyes. “Forgive us all, brother, for not being as stubborn and mammoth-headed as you.” He snapped.

“What about the color?”

Vilkas’ eyes closed. “What of it?”

“She has red hair, like Aela. But her beast has silver fur, like Kodlak’s.” he frowned.

“Kodlak’s beast used to be the color of brown ale. It’s only grey now because he has gotten old.” His brother told him. “Perhaps she’s really a hag, using an illusion spell or potion of youth.”

Farkas made a face. “I don’t think so. And what about the size of her beast? Do you think -”

Vilkas opened one eye to glare hatefully at his twin. “Talos if I’d know, now will you get out?”

 

~

 

Farkas was sitting quietly with Kodlak when she knocked at the door. Their eyes met, and he felt for a moment her deep unhappiness. He looked at her closely. Where once she had been girlishly soft, an Imperial lady for all her father’s doing, she was now hard and muscled, refined into an honor-bound warrior of the Companions.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked Kodlak softly.

“I’ve been looking for you.” He replied sternly. “Farkas, I’m afraid I must ask you for some privacy.” He turned back to Elisgird. “Have a seat, youngling.”

Farkas got up to go, sharing a sympathetic glance with the girl as he did so. She did not meet his eyes.

“I hear you’ve been busy of late,” Kodlak began.

Elisgird swallowed. “Aela and I work to avenge Skjor’s death.”

Farkas stiffened. “Your hearts are full of grief, and indeed, my own weeps at the loss of Skjor. But his death was avenged long ago. You have taken more lives than honor demanded. Farkas,” he warned.

The big Nord hastened his steps and closed the door behind him.

“What is it?” Vilkas asked, returning to his quarters from the dining hall.

Farkas jerked his thumb at the door. “The old man wanted to speak to the girl in private,” he frowned.

His brother grinned. “I reckon her and Aela are in it, then. You owe me twelve septims.”

“I never agreed to that.” Farkas growled back. They pressed their ears against the study doors.

“They want nothing more than to chase their prey with their master for eternity,” Kodlak was explaining. “And that is their choice.”

Farkas groaned. “I’ve heard this speech a hundred times.” He complained, and headed upstairs to look for something to eat.

Vilkas sighed. “At least now the girl gets the lecture, our ears can be spared a little.” He followed Farkas down the hallway, departing at the door to his quarters.

In the dining hall, Farkas spotted Aela and took the seat next to her.

“Brother.” She acknowledged, with a curt nod.

Farkas grunted back, reaching for some bread and a rabbit leg. “You’ve seen Elisgird’s beast.” He announced.

Aela looked up, startled. “I’ve been her handler on many hunts, yes.”

 _Many hunts._ “Hunting as a beast is forbidden.” Farkas growled, his teeth tearing through the soft meat.

“Chew with your mouth closed, ice brain.” Aela snapped. Remembering herself, she took a deep breath. “Skjor and Kodlak did not see eye to eye on many things. I am simply giving the girl another choice.”

He didn’t agree, but he didn’t bother saying so. He swallowed his food and continued. “How does a beast as large as hers exist inside a body as small as hers?”

Aela traced the engravings on her goblet with her index finger thoughtfully. “Skjor used to wonder if perhaps it was not the size of the man, but the strength of the soul that defines the beast. It makes sense, if you think about it. Even when you were a young pup of sixteen, your beast was the largest and fiercest of us all. You’re grown now, but your beast has always been the same size since you were but a young whelp.”

“Perhaps he was right.” Farkas was surprised.

Aela agreed. “Perhaps. Elisgird is admirably strong, with an uncanny knack for fighting. She’s young, with her whole life ahead of her. Did you know she is descended from the Hero of Kvatch?” Farkas shook his head. “On her mother’s side.”

Tilma emerged from the kitchen with a platter of warm sweet rolls and Farkas dove for them, grinning impishly as Aela rolled her eyes in disdain.

 

The Silver Hand came in the quiet hours, enveloped by darkness. They outnumbered the Companions five to one, as if they didn’t know the beasts wouldn’t dare change faces inside the city walls. When he heard the scratching at the door he thought it was Vilkas, and groaned into the dark, only for shining silver to cut through the air above his head. In the room across the hall, Vilkas roared a furious cry that made Farkas’ beast raise its hackles, and for a moment he lost himself, fighting for control. When he regained himself, he smelled blood and as his eyes adjusted in the darkness, he could see why. A headless corpse rested on its knees before him, blood spattering the walls behind it and he was vaguely aware of the shape of the skull he was gripping with both hands.

In the hallway, Vilkas was grappling with two assailants, steel against silver, sparks igniting randomly and bouncing off the walls. He was snarling his most gruesome threats as Farkas stepped behind them, impaling the smaller of the two on his greatsword and tripping up the other. Vilkas slashed at his throat and stepped on his groin, fresh blood and shit and urine pooling under his boots as the corpse defecated involuntarily. The younger twin wrinkled his nose, sensitive to the stink of battle.

“Where’s your armor?” Vilkas demanded crossly.

“I don’t fucking sleep in it, do I?” Farkas responded with a scowl, and they advanced on the chaos in the hall. Aela was trapped by three swords, cornering her outside her quarters. Her shoulder was bleeding heavily but she didn’t seem to notice, an elven dagger in one hand and dwarven in the other. Farkas lunged for one, his sword melting like butter through the bastard’s neck, blood streaming down his front.

The trio managed to make their way upstairs without being overwhelmed; though they came close more than once. Jorrvaskr was alight, the hearth fire had spilled over the stones and caught on the dining room table. Aela screeched like a banshee beside him and Farkas reeled, staring through the flames as Kodlak was caught by a shining silver dagger, flung through the air from the other side of the room. He took a knee, clutching at his shoulder and Farkas lunged through the fire towards him. A member of the Silver Hand beat him to the old man, plunging a second dagger into his neck. Farkas felt his feet leave the ground as he dove through the fire, smashing his knees against the stone and Kodlak’s killer’s throat exploding between his hands.

Blood and bone oozed from between his fingers. He was oddly aware of hovering above everything, as though he was watching himself from the ceiling. He could see Torvar and Njada behind him, dousing the fire. He could see Tilma on the other side of the room, tending to a badly-wounded Athis. Aela had thrown the Jorrvaskr doors wide open and was standing in the doorframe, silently staring, as the citizens of Whiterun began milling at the steps, wide-eyed and afraid. He could feel Vilkas, hear him howling with grief, Kodlak’s limp body cradled in his lap.

He sat there until Tilma extracted him from the floor, plunging his hands in a bucket of cold water and wiping at his face. He was aware of the stinging, but he didn’t _feel_ it, not as he should have. He sat, and let himself be empty.

“Where have you been?” Vilkas suddenly lunged from Kodlak’s body, stumbling into someone. It was Elisgird, he realized dimly. She dropped the filthy sack she was dragging and tripped over a fallen chair. Farkas’ beast began to growl, the sound rolling through his head, making him reel. He inhaled suddenly, fixing his eyes on the sack. His beast blood was telling him to run, run far away from whatever was in there. He smelled fear that was at once his own and yet it was somehow also _not_ , like he could suddenly see the line where he ended and his beast began.

“I said _where have you been?_ ” Vilkas thundered, catching Elisgird’s wrist, twisting it painfully.

“I was doing Kodlak’s bidding!” she spat back up at him, wrenching from his grasp and hauling herself up. The color drained from her face slowly as she took in her surroundings. Jorrvaskr had been washed in blood. Her eyes fixed on Kodlak’s body and she sank to her knees.

His brother’s face turned to stone. “I hope it was important, because it means you weren’t here to defend him.”

Elisgird shuffled towards him on her knees, reaching out her hand to stroke his silver hair. “Who?” she asked, voice hoarse.

“The Silver Hand. They finally found enough courage to attack Jorrvaskr.” He spat on the nearest corpse. “We fought them off but…. _Bastards._ ”

Elisgird lay her head gently on his chest, still stroking his hair gently. “Was anyone else hurt?” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“No, but they made off with all our fragments of Wuuthrad.” Vilkas announced. Farkas’ head snapped up; he hadn’t noticed in all the chaos. “You and I are going to reclaim them.” He announced. He stalked the length of the mead hall. “We will bring the battle to their chief camp. There will be none left living to tell their stories. Only songs of Jorrvaskr will be sung. We will avenge Kodlak. And they will know terror before the end.”

Elisgird got to her feet stiffly, and dragged her sack to an empty chest. Farkas watched her tuck the key into her breastplate, and their eyes locked. For the first time, he couldn’t read the expression on her face, and he looked away.

While they were gone, Jorrvaskr was quiet – quieter than it had been in a hundred years. The Companions moved silently around each other, grieving. The smell of blood and death pervaded all, and the thing in the chest. He caught Aela eyeing it off uneasily, and creeping away from it, deeply disturbed. He watched Eorlund and Vignar struggling with Kodlak’s body and intervened, lifting the old man from the floor like a child, and carrying him up to the Skyforge, where Eorlund had prepared the pyre. Afternoon drifted into dusk, which slowly became night.

“Should we get started?” Vignar Gray-Mane asked uneasily.

“They’ll be here,” Farkas snapped. “We wait.”

At last Vilkas reappeared, Elisgird in tow. She looked gaunt in her grief, far older than her twenty years. She huddled by herself, slightly aside from the rest of them. _It’s her fault._ He surprised himself with the viciousness of the thought. _If she was here, we could have taken them before they got to him._

Eorlund cleared his throat. “Who will start?”

No-one spoke, until Aela stepped forward. “I’ll do it.” She said, sounding strange. “Before the ancient flame, we grieve.”

“We grieve.” the Companions echoed.

“At this loss, we weep.” Eorlund continued.

“We weep.” They repeated together.

Vilkas tipped his torch to Farkas’, already burning. “For the fallen, we shout.”

“We shout.”

“And for ourselves, we take our leave.” He looked at the face of the man on the pyre. The man who had raised him, when Jergen had gone. The man he had loved and respected above all.

“We take our leave.” The others echoed him softly.

Aela stepped forward first, tossing her torch gently on the kindling. “His spirit is departed. Members of the Circle, let us withdraw to the Underforge, to grieve our last together.”

Slowly, they began to depart, one-by-one, pausing by the pyre to make a silent prayer or say farewell. Farkas began to descend the steps, each footstep weighed down by his heart.

“Do you have the fragments of Wuuthrad, still?” Eorlund asked softly. Farkas paused to hear the answer, but no-one spoke. “I need to prepare them for mounting again,” he added.

“Here. Take them.” Elisgird told him.

“Careful with those.” Eorlund replied gravely. “Don’t want even more fragments, do we?”

Farkas clenched his teeth and forced himself to keep walking.

The three of them sat in the dark in silence for the longest time. Vilkas paced, while Farkas and Aela sat as still as stone.

“We need to do something,” Vilkas muttered.

“What?” Aela snapped. “The old man is dead. He’s with Hircine now.”

“The old man had one wish before he died. And he didn’t get it. It’s as simple as that.” His brother smashed his fists down on the font.

Elisgird crept into the light, boots barely making a sound on the stone.

“Being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas.” Their shield-sister retorted hotly.

Vilkas stabbed a finger into Aela’s chest. “That’s fine for you,” he snarled. “But he -” he pointed above them. “Wanted to be clean. He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovngarde. But all that was taken from him.”

“And you avenged him.” Aela looked from Vilkas to Elisgird and back to Vilkas.

“Kodlak did not care for vengeance.” Farkas spoke, glaring at Elisgird.

Vilkas sighed deeply. “No, Farkas. He didn’t. And that’s not what this is about. We should be honoring Kodlak, no matter our own thoughts on the blood.”

“You’re right.” Aela dropped her face into her hands. “It’s what he wanted, and he deserved to have it.”

“Kodlak used to speak of a way to cleanse his soul, even in death,” Vilkas remembered, his eyes suddenly far away. “You know the legends of the Tomb of Ysgramor.”

“ _There, the souls of the Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel._ ” Aela spoke an old verse, one they had all three learned by heart. “We can’t even enter the tomb without Wuuthrad, and it’s in pieces, like it has been for a thousand years.”

“And dragons were just stories. And the elves once ruled Skyrim.” Eorlund interrupted. Farkas jumped, he hadn’t even heard him come in. “Just because something is, doesn’t mean it must be. The blade is a weapon. A tool. Tools are meant to be broken.” He shuffled forwards. ‘And repaired.”

“Is that…” Vilkas spoke in hushed tones. “Did you repair the blade?”

“This is the first time I’ve had all the pieces, thanks to our Shield-Sister here.”

Elisgird crossed her arms self-consciously, staring at the ground.

“The flames of a hero can re-forge the shattered. The flames of Kodlak shall fuel the rebirth of Kodlak.” He held out the shining ebony. “And now it will take you to meet him once more.” He turned to Elisgird. “As the one who bore the fragments, I think you should be the one to carry Wuuthrad into battle. The rest of you, prepare to journey to the Tomb of Ysgramor. For Kodlak.”

Wordless agreement passed between them, and they headed out to Jorrvaskr to regroup. As he left Farkas turned back to speak to Eorlund, only to catch the old smith passing Wuuthrad to Elisgird. She gripped the haft steadily in both hands, and swung the axe into the stone font. The blade sang, a single note of unspeakable purity as it sliced the air and cleaved the stone in twain like it were nothing. The severed piece slid heavily to the floor, cracking into pieces as it hit. The look in her eye as she regarded the weapon was so intensely intimate Farkas felt ashamed to have been a witness. He left hastily.

“… how will we know what to do when we get there?” Aela was arguing with Vilkas again.

“Perhaps Kodlak himself will tell us,” Vilkas threw his hands in the air, red-faced.

Behind Farkas, Elisgird cleared her throat. The three of them paused to look at her. “I already know what to do.” She told them coolly. The first words she’d spoken since the funeral. She reached into her breastplate and withdrew the key to the chest she had put there earlier, and swooped down to unlock it. Farkas’ beast shifted uncomfortably.

The halfling kicked at the chest roughly with her boot, sending it tumbling down the stairs. The sack was black with old blood, and one of the things inside rolled out.

It looked up at them, blinking, and began to laugh, an evil, ragged sound. It was the severed head of a Glenmoril hagraven. Black blood dripped from the gnarled wound, pooling on the floor.

Three pairs of eyes stared at the girl in shock. She quietly stuffed the cackling head back in the sack and hefted it over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”


	8. Ysgramor's Tomb

The quartet journeyed to the cold, bitter north of Skyrim. Not even biting winds and frigid snow could cheer Farkas up. Still grieving, they kept to themselves. Elisgird was wearing newly forged wolf’s armor, and Vilkas vehemently refused to reveal what had happened to her old pieces, only that they were un-salvageable after the pair sacked Driftshade Refuge.

They passed through Winterhold, Elisgird pausing to ask Aela questions about the great rotting castle, high on the cliffs, barely hanging on.

“Winterhold College, school of the arcane,” she scoffed. “No real Nord would ever set foot in that place. It’s full of _elves_ and _necromancers._ ” Her tone made it clear that one was just as bad as the other. They trudged down the treacherous cliff path, the Tomb of Ysgramor just visible through the snow.

Vilkas and Aela set up camp outside, while Farkas took Elisgird to track and kill a horker. They picked one of the smaller ones, isolated it from the colony and cornered it. He showed her how to skin it, keeping as much of the fat on the meat as possible, and how to get it back to camp with as little difficulty as possible. The cooked it slowly, turning it as often as possible, and took turns sleeping through the night.

In the morning, they readied themselves for battle. Aela was re-fletching some of her arrows, and Vilkas was running a whetstone up and down his blade. Farkas watched Elisgird tightening her new armor, remorse flooding his stomach and filling him with shame. His thoughts had been unworthy of Kodlak, and Elisgird had done nothing to earn them. His grief had clouded his judgement, it still did.

“We should get moving.” Vilkas grimaced, descending into the cairn. Aela followed slowly behind. Farkas waited for Elisgird, watching her scrape a handful of snow off the ground. It puddled into water, dripping down her wrists. Farkas gave himself a small shake.

“You coming?” he asked over his shoulder, not waiting for her to follow.

“This is the resting place of Ysgramor, and his most trusted generals. You should be cautious.” His twin told the girl solemnly, as they closed the door behind them.

Elisgird frowned. “Are you not coming?”

“Kodlak was right. I… I let vengeance rule my heart. I regret nothing of what we did at Driftshade, but I can’t go any further with my mind fogged or my heart grieved.”

Elisgird looked up at the statue of Ysgramor, stepping closer to it curiously. Her fingertips grazed the stone face wondrously. “It’s almost a likeness of you,” she told Vilkas softly, and her silver eyes landed on Farkas. “And you.” She slipped Wuuthrad into the waiting stone hands, and behind the statue, the stones shifted and turned, opening the doorway.

Farkas inhaled the musty scent of the old tomb, thinking of Kodlak. Gently, Elisgird prized Wuuthrad out of the statue’s hands, and side by side with Aela, entered the tomb. A startled skeever skittered across their path, neatly sliced in two by Wuuthrad. Farkas heard Elisgird’s heart pounding, she’d been startled. In any other circumstance, it would have amused him. They crept forward with baited breath.

“You are not welcome here!” a disembodied voice spoke from the dust; materializing, and dissipating as the halfling ran it through with Ysgramor’s axe.

“For Kodlak!” Farkas growled, stabbing at another ethereal form.

Three more appeared to battle in the first chamber, filled with dusty crypts and weapons thousands of years old, rusted through and nearly unrecognizable. The second chamber was more of the same, though at some point a leak had sprung, spilling a few inches of water across the floor. He could hear dripping echoing inside the walls.

The hallway to the third chamber was filled with egg sacs and sticky webs, with a springy freshness that made Farkas ill to his stomach and he knew he was done. Elisgird turned to him, concerned, and he suddenly saw her again, holding him close, her warm golden light healing him. “I can’t go any further, shield-sister.”

“What’s the matter?” she asked urgently, reaching for him.

“Ever since Dustman’s Cairn…” he trailed off, swallowing. “The big crawly ones have been too much for me. Everyone has his weakness, and this one is mine.” He tried to grin, but the expression felt ugly on his face. He couldn’t tell her the truth. She closed her eyes, brow furrowed painfully. When she looked up she did not look at him. “I’m not proud, but I will stay back with Vilkas. Give my regards to Ysgramor.”

Elisgird nodded, and Aela eye-balled him curiously, and they began battering through the ill-conceived spider webs towards their prize. Filled with hot shame, Farkas began to tread slowly back to the antechamber.

Vilkas sprang to his feet. “What happened?” he demanded.

“Frostbite spiders.” He sat down heavily with his back against the wall.

“Farkas. In all our two and twenty years, you have never, ever been afraid of a creature.”

He would have been offended if his twin didn’t see through him, and so he said nothing. Vilkas sat down beside him, cracking his jaw with a satisfied grunt.

“In Dustman’s Cairn, I got bitten by one. A big one, by accident. They made a nest in the ceiling and dropped down on us, from above. It wrapped its legs around me, pinning me down. I was suffocating and I blacked out. Elisgird fought them off and she peeled them off me.”

“She saved your life in battle, brother, and I’m sure she will again, many times over. We are all here for each other, no matter if our minds differ. You’ll get the chance to repay her a hundred times over, I know it.” Vilkas’ conviction was inspiring, but it only made Farkas feel worse.

“She healed me with magic.” He looked down at his brother.

Vilkas’ eyes tightened, but he shrugged slowly. “It’s not forbidden,” he muttered. “You might have been dead if she hadn’t acted in the moment.”

Farkas shook his head. “You weren’t there.”

His brother was frustrated. “What am I missing then?”

“It was… good.” He finished lamely. “I can’t explain it to you.”

“Try.”

“She held me close to her, like I’ve never been held by a woman – by anyone – before.”

“It was intimate,” Vilkas surmised.

“Yes. And… in her eyes, I could see… she couldn’t stand for me to die. And so, she used up a part of herself. I’ve never felt that before.” He could feel heat spreading in his face.

His twin’s curiosity was piqued. “Then what?”

“I don’t know. I passed out after that. When I woke up, the first thing I saw was her face, asleep. She’s… not ugly.” He stammered.

“Right. She’s a beautiful young woman, who could evenly match either of us in a fight, who brings you Argonian wines and sleeps in your room when she’s lonely. Oh, and one time, she saved you from dying.” Vilkas looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

“What?” Farkas asked, self-conscious.

“Why did that stop you from killing a few spiders to save Kodlak’s soul from Hircine?” he demanded, incredulous.

“I was afraid it would happen again.” He mumbled, feeling thick. “I don’t want that.”

“Don’t want what? To be vulnerable? You mammoth-headed, ice-brained, self -”

Aela appeared at the other end of the ante-chamber. “It is done.” She announced, sinking down beside the brothers, wiping her brow. “Kodlak’s soul is free.”

“Talos be praised!” Vilkas leapt to his feet. He swung around. “Where’s Elisgird?”

“She found a path up the side of the cliff, and asked to be alone.” She yawned, reaching for her toes. “And there’s more.”

“Go ahead.” Vilkas hugged himself, staring up at the statue of Ysgramor fondly, his eyes looking brighter than they had in months.

“Kodlak has chosen her to lead the Companions as the next Harbinger.”

Farkas exhaled and Vilkas’ jaw dropped.

“She shows strength and valor in battle. She is young yet, but I feel she will lead us to great victories,” Aela began to argue, but Vilkas put up his hand.

“You will not hear arguing from me, sister.” He replied. “Elisgird is indeed young, possibly much younger than Kodlak intended her to be at this moment, but I would stand by her side against the world.”

“As would I,” Farkas added.

Aela nodded slowly. “Then it’s settled. We will help her prepare Kodlak’s quarters when we return, and announce the news to the others.”

Vilkas closed his eyes briefly. “That… will go splendidly, I’m sure.” He frowned darkly.

Farkas agreed with his sentiment. “We’ll make sure of it.” He told his brother firmly.


	9. The Dragonborn Comes

With the young Harbinger in Riften, there was little to do in Whiterun besides train the whelps and go after the occasional bounty that popped up somewhere across the country. His conscience greatly eased over the passing of Kodlak, Farkas had even taken up going on the occasional hunt with Aela. It was on one such outing that he saw one of the great beasts, hurtling through the clouds and swooping down low, gliding over the plains after its quarry; _a mammoth_.

Aela stood at his side, mouth open wide enough to catch a moth, and he was glad of it.

 

“Bah!” Vilkas growled at him over the table, pouring himself another mug of ale. “It couldn’t have been.”

“I saw it too,” Aela snapped, green eyes glittering coldly, reflecting the flickering fire in the hearth. “The sunlight glittered off its scales, yellow-green like the grass of the plains. It was huge, big enough to clamp its jaws across the back of a mammoth and take off, back to the skies. It disappeared somewhere over Eldersblood Peak.”

“Are you suggesting we go hunting for a dragon?” he raised his fork to his mouth, chewing his venison loudly.

Farkas leapt to his feet, pretending not to notice his chair fall back behind him. “Yes!”

“Sit down ice-brain, we aren’t going anywhere now.” Aela sniffed. “I like your enthusiasm though. How about it, Vilkas?”

“No. Not interested.”

“Suit yourself. I bet Elisgird will be up for it,” the huntress added under her breath.

“Speaking of the Harbinger, our lass has managed to infiltrate the Thieves’ Guild,” Vilkas announced, and Farkas dropped the chair he was sheepishly retrieving from the floor.

“What?” he asked, incredulous.

Vilkas gestured over his shoulder with a thumb at several mead barrels, marked with the Honningbrew emblem. “Seems the place is under new management; an Imperial chap named Mallus Maccius had these sent up this afternoon, regards to Elisgird Soldmoorsdöttir.” He snorted.

“Seems Maven Black-Briar finally got rid of Sabjorn then,” Aela’s teeth flashed white. “Crotchety old fool, he was.”

Farkas was confused. “How do you know Elisgird had anything to do with it?” he wanted to know.

“She was in town a few nights ago, we talked about it some.” His blue eyes glittered merrily at his younger brother. “It would seem she’s taken a fancy to _Brynjolf_ , if I understand correctly.”

Farkas said nothing, merely sipped his mead quietly, but he could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck. “That’s none of my business,” he offered eventually. He couldn’t tell if his brother was trying to rile him up deliberately, but decided it was none of his business. Elisgird could do what – _and who_ – she liked.

 

 

As the weeks dragged on, the quality of the mead being sent up from Honningbrew increased dramatically, but not enough to surpass Black-Briar. Vilkas suggested that was a marketing strategy on Maven’s part; keep the meadery in the black but also drive up the demand for her personal business, increasing profits two-fold.

Farkas found plenty of excuses to go hunting across the plains, hoping to see the dragon again. Once or twice he thought he might have seen it, circling high above the peak of the mountains, but never close enough to be sure it was more than just a large hawk.

The Harbinger returned home to Jorrvaskr on the back of a rumor that the Thieves’ Guild had suffered a great betrayal, a mirror of the one that had befallen them barely a decade ago. Farkas had been barely three-and-ten when they’d been hit, but it had been a bad one, he remembered that much. Before, the Thieves’ Guild had great influence in every city and town across not just Skyrim but all Tamriel, and Tilma had sat down and taught him and his brother to sew their pockets shut, and keep their small belongings safe. In the years since then, the Guild had become something of a running joke. Word in the taverns was that after a second such scandal they would likely cease to exist.

Elisgird mentioned nothing, but there was a force to her good cheer, and she couldn’t quite look anyone in the eye when she spoke. She locked her study doors at night, as Farkas and Vilkas found out, attempting to drag her into Farkas’ private rooms for a lively night of drinking and bragging. It had turned into a quiet affair after that. The brothers had gotten used to having a third wheel; especially one that hadn’t already heard all their favorite stories ten times over.

“I wonder what really happened?” Farkas wondered aloud, removing the stopper from a finely aged Colovian brandy.

Vilkas watched his brother fill his cup. “Maybe she’s finally found out what Brynjolf’s really all about,” he snorted. The Nord thief had a reputation that stretched as far as winter in Winterhold was long, and not just for being a handsome rogue swindler – though neither brother could quite see the appeal for himself.

The larger twin brooded into his brandy. “Do you think hunting would make her feel better?”

“It’s like to clear the head,” Vilkas replied thoughtfully. “What did you have in mind?” Farkas looked at him, hopeful, watching his brother’s face cloud over. “No. No, absolutely not. I forbid you from bothering the Harbinger with _your nonsense_ ,” he snapped.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Farkas was smug.

Vilkas stabbed a finger into his chest. “Dragons are not real. Maybe they were a thousand years ago, but they were wiped out. Don't go chasing legends, brother.”

Farkas shrugged heavily. “Worse comes to worst, we go up to Eldersblood Peak and bag some trolls. People pay good money for the fat, if not the meat, and I’ve always wanted a trollskin sleeping skin; I hear they’re good for keeping out the cold.”

Vilkas only shook his head and changed the subject.

 

Breakfast was quiet, and Farkas watched Elisgird staring impassively out the window into the rain, for a while; ignoring Vilkas’ surreptitious glaring and head-shaking. He made his own mind up, like a man, and steeling himself against his brother’s hostile hand gestures, slumped himself down on the bench under the window beside the Harbinger.

She glanced up at him, surprise in her silver eyes, and her small smile warmed him. “Farkas.” She dipped her head.

He decided to get right to the point. “Travelers have been coming to Whiterun. They tell stories about dragons. I’ve heard of them but I didn’t think they were real. You ever see one?”

She grinned into her mug, a small heave of her shoulders the closest thing to a laugh he'd seen from her since her return.

‘Yes, they’re real,” she snorted. “I’ve seen them.

“You’re a very brave woman. But I already knew that.” He looked down at her sideways as she finally met his gaze, faint amusement in her eyes. He swallowed, caught off guard.

“Let’s go kill a dragon, Farkas.”

“Well, that’s one way to find out if they’re real.” He leaned towards her, catching the sound of her heart skipping a beat. “I even know where we might find one.”

“Is that so?” Elisgird replied archly. She got up slowly, rocking on the balls of her feet and gathered up her gauntlets. She eyeballed Farkas’ sword condemningly. “Do you expect to kill a dragon with that toothpick, Brother?” she motioned him to follow her.

Farkas shrugged at Vilkas and followed the Harbinger downstairs to her room. He hesitated at the door, only moving when Elisgird took his arm gently. Wuuthrad was laid out on her dresser, with a whetstone and an old cloth.

“It's a beautiful axe,” Elisgird’s hand traced over the pommel lovingly. "Eorlund is a master of smithing." She placed Wuuthrad in Farkas’ hands and he looked down at it with dull surprise.

“I -” a soft finger pressed against his lip.

“Don’t say no.” Her silver eyes dared him to defy her, and for a moment Farkas swore they had turned bright gold, but only for a moment. It must have been a trick of the light.

“How will you fight?” he asked her.

She pressed her two index fingers together and parted them, flipping her hands over at the end of the gesture as sparks of deep violet filled her palms and materialized into a massive battleaxe, almost as big as Wuuthrad. It left a swirling blue-violet tail as she swung it expertly arm-over-arm. “It’s weightless,” she explained, grinning as his eyes widened. “But deadly.” With a quick heft, she buried it in the stone to the right of Farkas’ head. He blinked and it disappeared as quickly as it had materialized.

Farkas shook his head critically. “Why, though?”

Elisgird shrugged. “Ysgramor is an ancient, hallowed blade. It belongs to his descendants.”

“You saved Kodlak’s soul. You’re the Harb -”

She held up a hand, silencing him. “I _want_ you to have it. Ok?”

 “Let’s go.” He replied simply.

 

Eldersblood Peak was the highest of the mountains overlooking the ancient ruins of the even older city of Labyrinthian. Farkas kept his eyes peeled for frost trolls, knowing they could catch a man unawares, camouflaged in the eddies of swirling snow. Elisgird kept ahead of him, scouting the path ahead for bears and sabre cats. They tracked and killed a huge elk, which by Farkas’ reckoning would keep Jorrvaskr fed for at least a week. He hummed his favorite tavern song, _The Dragonborn Comes_ , as they kept pace together, but stopped when he caught her baleful glare.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized humbly. “Keep going if you wish.”

Farkas elected not to, slightly miffed. Elisgird kept her pace slow after that, though never too far behind him. They made camp well outside the ruins, leaving the meat bagged and tied up in a tree so as not to attract any beasts, and began their ascent up the mountain. At least coming directly from Whiterun, they didn’t have to pick their way through the ruins. Farkas had only stepped foot in them once, and then decided that was far too many times.

Wuuthrad felt light on his back but strong in his hands. He made a few slicing arcs as they walked, listening to the whistle the axe made as it cut through the very air around them. His beast-blood growled hungrily, but Farkas wanted to face this new foe as a man; as the Harbinger did. _As Kodlak wanted._ It suddenly occurred to him that there might even be a way for him now, to clean his soul of Hircine’s gift, and the thought struck him, stopping him in his tracks. He almost didn’t hear it coming.

Almost.

It was a sound like nothing he’d heard before, and he reeled, ears ringing. Elisgird crouched low to the ground, alert, neck craning towards the top of the mountain.

Then his beast-blood caught the scent.

Burning corpses. Old, decaying stone. Something ancient – something that made his beast cower and turn tail. The pair darted forward, watching smoke rising from the mountain in front of them, and turned the corner. The great animal perched on his Ancient Wall, wings spread, sunlight glittering off his back. Farkas paused and drew his breath. The creature was covered from great horned head to massive tail in scales of indescribable shades of iridescent greens and yellows. Golden eyes stared down at him and curiously, Farkas could see the reflection of his life in them; both as a small boy and an old, old man, looking forlornly back at himself. Curling yellow teeth snapped in his face and he felt the sweat evaporate from his skin as the monster blew a fiery breath.

Elisgird shoved into his side with a bellow and they rolled out of the way just in time. The dragon took flight, an upwards heave on monstrous wings that suddenly blocked out the sun. It landed behind them, causing the earth to quake, and Farkas added his bellow to Elisgird’s, charging ahead and flanking the dragon, a Companion on each side. Wuuthrad sliced into the beast’s hide like butter and its neck twisted back on itself, snapping at Farkas. Elisgird leaped up onto its back and took three strides towards the head, throwing herself at a long, curling horn and smashing her translucent battleaxe down into the dragon’s huge eyes. It reared back on its legs, roaring in pain as Farkas seized the opportunity to slice it from belly to withers, feeling scalding hot blood rain down on his face. The agonized screech of the dragon was the only thanks he needed as Elisgird unleashed a beastly cry and shattered its skull with the pommel of her weapon. It thrashed violently in its death throes, tossing the Nord halfling to the ground and collapsing, wings shuddering with the last whisper of life.

At last it was still. Elisgird staggered to her feet. Concerned, Farkas wiped the blood from his face and held his Shield-Sister upright. She slumped in his arms and he swore. Her eyes flickered absently. Gold, not silver. A pale shade of a green dragon surged up from the corpse and rushed into him. He stumbled, clutching Elisgird to his chest and fumbling for Wuuthrad but the shade swooped right through him, gnashing its ethereal teeth at the Harbinger. Elisgird snorted smoke from her nostrils and shuddered, eyes rolling back in her head, flashing golden with thin, black slits for pupils. The eyes of a dragon. Bewildered, Farkas held her fearfully until her eyes returned to their usual gleaming silver. Her lashes fluttered against her cheek as she closed them.

“What was that?” Farkas demanded. Dumb-founded, Farkas watched Elisgird half-walk, half-crawl towards the Wall. Farkas’ beast-blood boiled in his veins as Elisgird stumbled and fell heavily in the dirt. He pounced on her desperately. “Ellie,” he pleaded. “Ellie, for Talos’ sake, stop and tell me what is going on.”

“In a minute,” Elisgird snapped hotly, freeing herself and gaining on the Wall. Farkas sat still, watching. She sank to her knees in front of the Wall and gazed up at the Words. His beast-blood was raging in his chest as he smelled her, smoldering with dragon fire, and sweat from battle.

“What does it say?” he asked huskily.

“Noble Nords remember these words of the Hoar Father: the best weapon of Skyrim is the mind of a steel-souled warrior.”

“Does it make a shout?”

“Yes.” She breathed. “ _Weapon. Zun._ ”

“You’re the Dragonborn.”

Elisgird looked over her shoulder at him, ingratiating him an eyeroll. ‘Don’t you _dare_ start singing.” She growled.

Farkas knelt on the stone beside her, staring up at the Words. “Do they all tell stories?” he asked.

“Yes.” She replied simply. Splaying her legs out beside her, Elisgird leaned into Farkas’ chest. He pressed his nose into her hair and inhaled, and her scent made his beast-blood growl. “Does this make for a good story?” heavy-lidded eyes peered up at him.

“I helped the Dragonborn kill a dragon.” Farkas’ heart thudded in his chest. “Maybe the bards will write a song about me.”

Elisgird burst out laughing. “At least then I’d get a reprieve from your other favorite!” she locked her hands around Farkas’ neck, pulling him to the ground with a chuckle. “We’d better make it a _good_ song.”

Her fingernails grazed his scalp affectionately as she pressed her mouth against his. Farkas felt his beast jerk inside him as Elisgird’s teeth grazed his lips. She tasted hot and sweet on his tongue, and he pressed for more only to feel her withdraw. Her hand stiffened against his chestplate and he retreated. “That’s well enough,” he told her affably, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his heart. She made a noise of agreement, refusing to meet his eye again.

He got to his feet, brushing dirt off his knees, and strapped Wuuthrad to his back. Beside the skeleton of the beast, he felt positively dwarfed. Elisgird crept up behind him. “Now that was a battle,” he told her admiringly, fleetingly forgetting her rejection.

“You fought well.” She replied softly.

 _Not well enough,_ he thought angrily, but instantly reproached himself. “Thank you, Harbinger.” He said instead. “We bring honor to the Companions.” Though she stood beside him, so close they were almost touching, he could feel the coolness around her, like some great chasm between them. He was puzzled, they were friends, they had been close even since their first mission together. He flushed, embarrassed. _She_ had kissed _him_. He, Farkas, would never have done that on his own. She must want him, surely. Some part of her did.

“Shall we go?”

“You go if you want,” he snapped at her. “I’ve never seen bones this large. I want to make sure I remember them, so I can tell the story right. Otherwise Vilkas will just say I was making it up.” He folded his arms, glaring at the dead dragon.

“Alright.”

Farkas listened to her feet crunching away in the dirt, until he couldn’t hear them anymore. _Women._

 

~

 

He wasn’t surprised when he got back to Jorrvaskr to find the Harbinger gone again, although it made his chest ache. He’d halfheartedly planned to confront her, but felt relieved instead that he didn’t have to. Vilkas eyed him off as he slouched from one end of the mead hall to the other.

“What? Not going to tell me all about how the great dragon hunt went?” he asked sarcastically.

“We killed a dragon.”

“I know. The whole bloody city won’t shut up about it.”

Farkas smirked triumphantly. “I told you so.”

“Yes. You were pinned to the ground without a weapon, when the Dragonborn came to your rescue and slayed the great beast. Afterwards, you made love on the peak of the mountain and when she came her Thu’um caused the mountain to quake and a great landslide opened up a new passage between the two peaks of Cold Rock.”

Farkas was speechless.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, ice-brain. And then you can tell me which parts of the tale I am to believe.”

 

And so that was how the tale spread across Whiterun, Elisgird’s doing or not, Farkas had no way of knowing. He didn’t leave Jorrvaskr for a week, until Ria and Njada’s teasing got to him and he locked himself in his quarters, cursing the day Elisgird Soldmoorsdöttir had walked through the doors. In his limited hours of sleep, he could still feel her lips burning against his own, the way her hands felt on the back of his neck. In the darkest hours, he could feel her again in his arms, the golden eyes of a dragon baring into his soul, looking up at him out of her head.

He woke with a start, to the sounds of someone stumbling around Jorrvaskr in the dark. The smell and the beat of her heart told him it was Elisgird, and her shuffling feet and heavy breathing made him wonder if she was drunk, until her heard her collapse on the floor with a sharp intake of breath. He could smell pain, and blood. He reached around on the floor for his breeches, pulling them on backwards and inside-out as he fumbled for the door. It was dark in the hall but his eyes adjusted quickly. She was sitting against one of the end tables, eyes closed, clutching her chest.

“Ellie -” he murmured quickly, and swept her up in his arms. She was warm with fever, and groaned quietly against his neck. He shoulder-barged gently into the study doors and closed them behind him with his foot, and repeated the motion as he carried her into her bedroom. He lay her on the bed, listening to her gasping quietly while he found kindling for the candles on her dresser.

Her eyes looked blearily up at him, more grey than silver. “Leave me be,” she rasped.

Farkas shook his head. “I won’t. Not like this.”

The Harbinger swung her legs slowly over the end of the bed, sitting up. “Tilma… water…” she gestured weakly at her washbasin.

“I’ll do it.” He told her swiftly, and went upstairs to take water from the cool barrels outside. Back downstairs, Elisgird struggled getting her tunic over her head and Farkas gently took it for her, watching her shiver softly as he peeled it away from her skin. Her breasts were lovely, much firmer and rounder than they looked in her armor but his eyes were immediately drawn away from them to the hastily-made bandage around her midsection. Red stained the cloth above her navel, and as he peered over her shoulder to check for more wounds he saw a similar stain in the small of her back, just clear to the right of her spine. She unwound the makeshift dressing to reveal a long, slim wound, shiny and swollen. He checked her back, confirming his suspicions.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone ran you through with a sword.” He told her darkly. Elisgird reached for a clean cloth in her bedside table, and swirled it through the water, not saying anything. “Who did this?”

Elisgird kept her mouth firmly closed, gently cleaning herself, wincing from the pain.

“Can’t you heal yourself?” Farkas asked weakly. He snatched the wet fabric from her and took over.

“Too tired.”

He had no idea how far away she’d been. “Where were you?”

“I walked from Windhelm.” She admitted quietly.

Farkas cursed under his breath. “How are you going to sleep like this?”

Elisgird looked down at her pillow doubtfully. “I think… I’m ok on my side.”

The big Nord grimaced. He let her stretch out, watching her wincing out of the corner of his eye. He wrung out the wet cloth and hung it over the bowl supports to dry, and rounded the other side of her bed. Carefully, he stretched out behind her, curling himself gently against the curve of her body. He laced his fingers with hers and pressed her hand ever so slightly up against the wound on her chest. “Try.” He told her.

She said nothing, and nothing happened. He though for the longest time that she might have fallen asleep when at last a trembling golden light trickled out from her fingertips, and he felt its warmth against his own. He shifted his head forward, so that he could feel the hair on top of her head tickling his nose. She was warm, and she smelled like dragon’s tongue and wet snow, and she was going to be fine. He closed his eyes and succumbed to a restless sleep.


	10. Good Hunting

He stared into the flaming golden eyes of the dragon, afraid to even take a breath. His reflection stared fearfully down at him and he became trapped, mesmerized by the vision of himself, as he had been as a child, as he would be in ten years with grey streaks in his hair and twenty, forty, sixty years from now as a withered old man. The dragon’s eyes showed him everything, past and future. He could see his own face, laughing, weeping, sleeping. He watched himself bounce a small boy on his knees. He saw his own hands clasping another’s, dull gold wedding rings worn with age adorning each. The beast blinked, exhaling smoke from its nose and Farkas closed his own eyes, feeling the warm tendrils curling around his face.

 

They snapped open again, and squinted, adjusting to the light.

“You were dreaming.” Elisgird’s fingers were caressing the lines of his cheeks and brows, silver eyes studying the lines of his face, fascinated.

“Was I?” he murmured back, trying to remember. “I think there was a dragon…”

The girl made a noise in her throat. “I dream about them, too.” She stretched and yawned, dropping her hand from his face and letting it land carelessly on his waist. Their foreheads touched together, and Farkas yearned to close the gap between them and kiss her, but the memory of her rejection on Eldersblood Peak kept him still. Her thumb stroked his skin just above the waistline of his linen trousers, drawing him into a fantasy of Elisgird pulling them down and – he clenched his jaw tightly. He wouldn’t think about that.

Finally, she sighed blissfully and rolled onto her back. “This is nice,” she told him drowsily.

He eyed the thick pink ridge of scar tissue between her ribs darkly. “That was a mortal wound, Elisgird. You should be dead.”

“That’s a little dramatic for you, don’t you think?”

Farkas scowled. “What were you doing in Windhelm?”

With an air of nonchalance that felt forced, the Harbinger slipped from her bed, pulling a fresh tunic from her wardrobe, and slipping it over her head.

“Fine.” He glared at the ceiling. “Don’t tell me.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, starting when Elisgird slid heavily onto his lap.

Her arms wrapped around him, fingers winding like snakes through his hair. Her kiss was gentle, sweet on the corner of his lips and his mouth dropped open in surprise. Her lips parted around his tongue and he could taste her, warm and sweet and slightly sour from sleeping. When it ended she didn’t pull away, only rested her nose on his, catching her breath.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

“I know that.” He did know that.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, then.”

Farkas hesitated. “Whoever did it…”

“Will be six feet under before the end of the month. I promise.”

He gave her a solemn nod, and she padded barefoot into the study.

Heeding his growling stomach, he headed upstairs to breakfast. Vilkas raised an eyebrow at him as he emerged from the Harbinger’s study, tossing him a clean shirt.

“Good morning, brother.”

“Good morning,” he replied, hiding a grin.

“Elisgird’s well, then?” the older brother asked suspiciously.

“Only mortally wounded.”

Vilkas coughed. “Shame. Must have been a big sword.” They passed Tilma on the stair, bawdiness earning them a deep frown and clucking of the tongue. “But I know you didn’t do anything, because it looks like Jorrvaskr still has a ceiling.”

Farkas shrugged, pulling a plate of leftover pheasant towards him, and helping himself. “It was just a kiss,” he told his brother affably. “She didn’t pull away this time.”

“Good for you,” Vilkas responded archly, tearing into the bread. “Poor Ysolda.”

“Mmhmm.” He felt a smile creep across his face. Between himself, Mikhail the bard and several of Whiterun's guardsmen, the merchant girl would barely notice if he stopped hitting on her at the Bannered Mare. Not that he intended to; unless Elisgird asked to be serious. He was just pleased she was interested. He wondered what she was doing downstairs that was so important, absorbing himself in the lingering ghost of her hands on his skin.

“Talos, I can’t wait for the day when I am rid of this curse.”

Farkas looked up, alarmed and chagrined. He hadn’t noticed Vilkas was having one of his off days.

“Do you think it’s possible?” He wanted to know.

“Of course it is. We did it for Kodlak.”

“I mean as living men. If we were to take the head of the witches to the flames ourselves, could we give up the beast blood today?”

His brother’s gaze focused on him slowly. “Whatever made you think of such a thing?”

Farkas shrugged, helpless. “We don’t know so much about magic. Shouldn’t we at least try?”

“There aren’t enough witch heads for trial and error, Farkas. I suppose Aela doesn’t want hers, but what are we to do if it doesn’t work?”

“You think we will all have to wait until we die?”

Vilkas tossed his fork down on his plate, upset. “It would be a fitting punishment for our insolence. Bowing our heads to Hircine like obedient cattle. We will never know ourselves without this violence in our hearts, the rushing in our blood. We will never know what it’s like to live as only a man, and we will have only each other on our deathbeds. There will be no family, no children to mourn our passing. Only this pain and suffering in my head, always. Gods, I cannot do it!” He buried his head in his hands.

Farkas felt the echo of his own beast howling, low and long, a howl of solidarity; of kinship. He didn’t struggle, not like Vilkas, but sometimes he couldn’t tell where he ended and his beast began. Somewhere along the way he had lost himself in the animal, and though he would never say it aloud, he did resent it. He resented what it made him. He didn’t often think of the man he murdered on the night of his changing. Skjor and Aela had drummed into his head that it wasn’t his fault, but Kodlak had never looked at him the same after that.

He felt restless, suddenly. He needed to feel Wuuthrad’s weight in his palms; needed to feel the rending of flesh under his blade. There were several bandit caves on the plains that he knew about. It was time to go out and do something about them.

 

-

 

“Good hunting?”

Farkas looked up, surprised, and nodded.

Elisgird’s armor gleamed, freshly polished. “I will be in Winterhold, though I’m not sure for how long. She looked ahead, at the road. Farkas had been sitting in a stream, half-naked, rinsing the blood from his own armor, though he thought he had been concealed to passers-by. _Evidently not._

She looked back at him. “I’m glad I caught up with you,” she added sincerely. “Will you meet me in Solitude, in a month’s time?”

“That would be the ninth of Last Seed, no?”

“I think so, yes.”

He pretended to consider it. “Well, I’m not doing anything else.”

“I promise you I’ll make it worth it.” The Harbinger flashed her dazzling smile and headed off.

“Two promises in one day,” Farkas grumbled, long after Elisgird was out of earshot. “Lucky me.

Vilkas rattled in his bed all night; groaning and growling in pain. Several times he got up to pace the hallways, unsettled. Frustrated, Farkas let himself into Elisgird’s office, slipping quietly through the double doors, praying to Talos no one would hear. He flicked through the papers on her desk quickly, the words _Ustengrav_ and _Jurgen Wind-Caller_ leaping out at him off the pages, but nothing to do with werewolves or the beast blood. She’d left the door to her room open, and catching her scent on his nose, he wandered in. The bloody rags from last night were still on the floor, and he could smell her sweat on the sheets from where they had lain together, sharing their heat. Out of curiosity, he peeked in her bedside table drawer, palming a plain, leather diary in his hands.

Shiftily, he opened it, wondering if there was anything about beasts in there, but instead realized it was Kodlak’s diary.

> _Then I see every next Harbinger turn away from Sovngarde and enter the Hunting Grounds of their own accord. Until it comes to me, and I see great Tsun on the misty horizon, beckoning me. It appears I have a choice. And then, at my side, a stranger I had not seen before. As I look into her eyes, we turn to see the same wolf who dragged away Terrfyg, and she and I draw weapons together._

Farkas drew a sharp breath, heart pounding. He flicked through the pages.

> _Farkas seems completely untroubled. That boy continues to amaze with his fortitude._

Despite himself, he blinked away the water from his eyes, and kept reading.

> _I have received few dreams over the course of my life, but when they come, I have learned to trust them. I have also learned to trust the instincts of my heart, which tells me that Elisgird can carry the Companions legacy as truly as any residing in Jorrvaskr, especially with the loss of Skjor. Aela is too solitary, Vilkas too fiery, and Farkas too kind-hearted. Only Elisgird stands as a true warrior who can keep a still mind amidst these burning hearts._
> 
> _I will not speak to her of any of this, though. It is too much to burden another with. My hope is that she and I can keep counsel over the coming years, that I can impart the wisdom of the Harbingers. All things in time. Firstly, I will seek her assistance in the matter of the witches of Glenmoril. It would appear that our path to the cure is not without some poetic justice for the tricksters who first cursed us._

She hadn’t lied then, the night of his death. She _had_ been doing Kodlak’s bidding, and it _had_ been important; to the old man at least. Important enough to forgive her absence at their side during the battle. Gently, he slid the diary back in amongst Elisgird’s personal things and tip-toed back to his room. _The girl is the key_ , Kodlak had told him. He would tell Vilkas to seek her counsel. Kodlak had chosen her as their Harbinger for a reason. She could bring them back to the path of Ysgramor. He was certain of it.

 

-

 

“Wait -” he called, but she kept walking. The ground trembled under their feet, and she paused, watching as six great stone eagles rose from the murky waters underneath the bridge. Awestruck, Farkas paused, watching liquid pour from the massive birds’ eyes and the details in the feathering.

Elisgird was frozen in place, and he grasped her gently by the elbow, leading her forwards. Slowly they walked across the bridge towards the tomb together, and he noticed uncomfortably that the draugr here were already dead. Not long dead, either, their dry, bony corpses had not crumbled into grainy dust. Elisgird reached for the parchment atop the crypt while Farkas knelt at one of the bodies for closer inspection.

“ _No!_ ” Elisgird snarled, the vitriol in her voice filling him with alarm. She crumpled the note in her fist.

**_“FUS RO!”_ **

She roared, and the big Nord dove into the water to escape her fury.

“Elisgird!” he snapped, frigid water gathering in his boots and codpiece.

The Harbinger at least had the grace to look contrite, reaching her hand out to help him get out of the water. He took her wrist and pulled her in.

“Bastard!” she spluttered, surfacing. Farkas’ laughter echoed through the stone chamber, bouncing off the walls and amplifying his glee. Elisgird flounced out of the pool via the stairs, mouth set in a line, determined to retain some of her dignity. She unraveled the sopping parchment and thrust it in his face. “Now look what you’ve done.”

He looked at it. The ink was illegible, if it ever had been legible in the first place.

“Worth it,” he told her sincerely. “What did it say?”

“Some asshole has already taken the horn. Apparently to Riverwood,” she added thoughtfully.

Farkas shrugged. “Go Shout at them. They might give it back.”

The look she gave him would have withered a mammoth, but Farkas remained unperturbed.

He stepped out of the tomb into the afternoon sunlight, reflecting back off the swamp and raising the humidity. He sloshed over to their makeshift camp, stepping over the bodies of the necromancer and the two bandits they had intercepted here, and began stripping out of his wet armor. Elisgird did the same, keeping the tent between them for privacy.

“We’ve seen each other naked before,” he called pleasantly.

“Tossing me into that water has significantly decreased your chances of ever seeing me naked again.” Elisgird retorted.

“Oh.” He frowned. “What if I offer you my dry tunic?”

Her head appeared over the tent, magically disembodied. “I’m listening.”

“It’s big enough. You could wear it as a dress,” he told her doubtfully.

A single hand appeared beside the head and he balled his shirt up and tossed it at her, watching her disappear again.

Partially dressed, she set up a makeshift clothesline from sticks, while he built up the fire, and laid their wet clothes over it. Finally, she tucked herself up in her sleeping skin, biting noisily into an apple.

“We’ll head back in the morning. Do you want to stop in home first, or go straight to Riverwood?”

“I can handle Riverwood on my own,” she replied. “What could go wrong in a tiny village town?”

“Your choice.” Farkas shrugged. He kept his disappointment to himself. “If you find it, will you take it back to the Greybeards?”

“I have to learn as much as I can from them.” Her voice was toneless. “It would be easier to be on their good side than not.”

“Why?”

“Facing Alduin is my destiny. Defeating him is optional.”

“He’s just a dragon.” Farkas thought of the great winged beast from Eldersblood peak.

Elisgird shook her head. “Alduin is more than that. He’s the son of a god, the Firstborn of Akatosh. There’s a reason he’s called the World-Eater.” She shivered, even in the warmth of the fire.

“Have you seen him?”

“I have. In Helgen.”

“Vilkas thought that was just a rumor.”

She shook her head again, and Farkas closed his mouth. As the last rays of the sun descended in the east, he crawled into his own sleeping skin beside her. “The Companions will always have your back, Harbinger.”

“Thank you, Farkas.” She touched his hand, and he closed his softly around it.

“Did you get the bastard that almost killed you?” he asked.

He saw her smile in the flickering firelight. “I did.”

The Companion closed his eyes, content.


	11. Rough Nights

Farkas listened to Elisgird shifting restlessly in the darkness, before shoving her sleeping skin away and stalking off, away from the swamp. He waited a short while before following, gliding slowly through the mist with his hunter’s grace, searching for the Harbinger. He paused to scent the air, tasting only the husky earthiness of the swamp. Crouching down, he watched the minute ripples in the water crest into tiny waves and lap against the stones of the shore, and he saw it, the shadow of a footprint. Not from a small woman but a large, heavy animal, with five toes and wickedly curved claws.

Masser and Secunda were nowhere to be found tonight. It was dark and misty, a night for hagravens and necromancers. Farkas shivered out of his skin, stretching his limbs, and feeling his mind sharpen with his beastly instincts. He pressed his nose to the ground, a _whuffing_ sound escaping his teeth in anticipation.

If he had been silent and graceful as a man, now he was as slippery as a shadow; not even the mud beneath his toes dared to squelch at him. He was predator, not hunting for prey, but for his pack. A gruff bark made his ears twitch and he caught a scent as familiar to him as home; _family_.

He glimpsed her in the darkness of the night. The silver pools of her eyes were fixed on him, a sharp-toothed grin playing on her muzzle. He vaguely noticed he was drooling. His tongue flicked upwards, moistening his nose as the other one shook her fur hastily. At some point, she had rolled in the mud by the shore, to dull her coat and her scent to prey.

The smell of her was clear, she was one of his own, from his pack. He loped over to her side and clamped his teeth around her ear. Elisgird nipped back at him crossly, and he yelped as she pressed her cold, wet nose against his behind.

 _There you are,_ her voice as a beast was much lower, and less musical, but he recognized it.

He licked her nose for her. _Here I am,_ he agreed.

_Come and see what I’ve found._

Farkas followed her through the swamp until they came out at the coast, and stopped abruptly in the brush line, concealed from their quarry. A massive horker bull guarded his cows protectively, but three adolescent horkers were rolling about in the shallows. They were both much faster than an angry horker, and without a doubt would be able to subdue their prey and drag it into the swamp before the parents even realized they were there. Elisgird’s wet, pink tongue was lolling out of the side of her mouth, ropes of saliva hanging lazily from her teeth.

He raked his chest with his claws, eager for her signal. A young bull appeared from somewhere, challenging the old one with an aggressive display of mating with the nearest cow. The furious creature descended from his post, blubber rolling across his great back violently. Wordlessly, the beasts separated and converged on the three adolescents from the north and the south, but the big horker was too distracted by the newcomer to notice their cries. They ignored the smallest one, who splashed away back towards the herd, trapping the two fat ones.

His jaws clapped around the neck of his horker, holding it still with his back foot clamped over its tail and his front paws wrapped around its body. He smelt it defecate as it died, and dragged it off into the shrubs from where he’d come, and waited for Elisgird. She was toying with it almost lazily, grabbing it by the tail fins and raking her claws down its back, drawing blood and licking it away slowly. He whined impatiently.

Suddenly, the matriarch of the horker cows spotted her, releasing an angry bellow, and began her sluggish crawl to rescue her calf. The silver beast dropped it promptly and bounded towards the huge cow delightedly, and he was impressed. This fatter animal had been her quarry all along. She leapt for it, salty water spraying up as commotion ensued. The cow was not going down without a fight and his packmate was determined to win her prize. This cow, though, was particularly old and fat, and Elisgird’s beast claws were slipping off her rubbery belly, unable to find purchase and tear through the soft belly skin.

The bull had shaken off his earlier assailant and realized his best cow was being attacked. The herd parted around him, clutching at their calves as he rushed to her defense. She growled deep in her throat, and the horker roared in answer. Farkas dropped the dead horker calf he’d been munching on and bounded through the shallow water in defense of his sister. She had hooked her claws into his gills and was tearing them from his face, hanging on desperately. The horker reared back, crying out in pain and he seized the opportunity, stabbing his front claws into the big male’s blubbery belly and tearing open his ribcage. The large cow leapt to her patriarch’s defense and he stepped on her head, while the other beast tore into her side, tearing away her tail fin and opening her up, exposing the dark meat on her back.

The remaining horkers watched them drag the big bull away into the swamp with curious black eyes, none left that were brave enough to defend them. In any case, both leaders of the herd were dead, and any that followed would have met the same fate. The werewolves ate their fill of horker and picked the stump of some big tree to bury the remains under. He picked at a persistent lump of blubber between his teeth with his claws, while Elisgird rolled languidly in the mud, groaning from the fullness of her stomach. He urinated on the tree stump gleefully. The scent would be a helpful reminder if they ever passed this way again.

 

-

 

When he woke up he was naked, not something that usually caused him concern. What did though, was his erection, poked against the hard muscle of Elisgird’s ass. His hands, he realized, were cupped around her breasts, overflowing from even his huge palms. He tried not to panic as she stirred from her sleep.

“Oh,” escaped her lips as she squinted up at him sleepily. “ _Oh._ ” Her eyes widened as she slowly took in her immediate surroundings.

Farkas looked down at her, frozen. Her hair was tickling his nose. He needed to sneeze. She blinked once, twice, her hands fluttering against his on her chest, arching her back against his stomach. Her hands reached up to stroke his face. “Farkas,” she murmured gently.

Ignoring the sneeze, he craned his head down to kiss her. He felt her exposed nipple stiffen under the sweep of his thumb. “Good morning, beautiful,” he told her, and she smiled, stretching her limbs.

“Gods!” she exclaimed, sitting up suddenly. “Why am I _covered in mud?_ ” she demanded, dashing off down to the water without waiting for an explanation.

Slowly, he began to remember their adventure the night before, hunting horkers together as beasts. Ordinarily he would have felt guilty about changing skins, but since Kodlak’s passing, he found he didn’t mind so much. The old man had found his peace, and if it was possible for him, it was possible for Vilkas. He didn’t quite believe Aela’s doctrine, but he understood her doggedness to meet Skjor in Hircine’s hunting grounds. He wondered what the Harbinger believed.

Elisgird returned to camp, not quite clean, but not covered in filth, either, and began dressing. The clothes stank of smoke from the campfire, but at least they were dry. The leather buckles behind his knees and under his arms were stiff from being wet, but Elisgird tightened them for him without prompting, and he was grateful. Together they packed up everything else and began the long walk back to Whiterun.

“Ellie,”

“Hmm?”

 _What are your feelings for me? Why do moments like this morning keep happening between us?_ He wanted to ask. “Do you think a man can cure the beast blood while he is alive?” he asked her instead.

The Harbinger stopped in her tracks. “Whatever gives you that idea?” she asked sharply.

“It’s Vilkas. He struggles with his beast. It might do him some good if he can be cured of it, as soon as possible. I don’t know if he’s come to you about it already, but, I wanted to know.”

Elisgird pursed her lips and kept walking. “I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t know if it’s even possible.”

“He’s my brother. If there’s some way…”

She nodded thoughtfully, not looking at him. “I’ll look into it. But he must come to me himself, Farkas. If it’s what he wants, he has to decide for himself.”

“I know that.” He answered quietly. “But you’ll help him? If you can?”

“If I can.” She confirmed.

 

-

 

When they arrived back at Jorrvaskr, Elisgird had Tilma draw her some warm water and bring it to her room. It was nearly dark again already. In her study, she helped him again with his buckles, pulling away at the plates of his armor slowly. He closed his eyes as she drew him deeply into a kiss. They parted for breath just as Tilma bustled in noisily with Elisgird’s water and clean linens. She smiled at him with the same open, lovely smile she’d given him this morning, the shadows of her dimples melting his knees.

“Goodnight, Farkas.” She disappeared into her room, closing the doors firmly.

“You next!” trilled Tilma, dragging him back to his own quarters. “You stink to the high heavens, boy!”

She waited outside his door to collect his filthy laundry, and he listened to her stomp down the hallway, grinning to himself. He was grateful for the hot water, at any rate, and gave himself a thorough washing. When he was dressed he poured two deep tankards full of Firebrand wine and wandered back into Elisgird’s study.

Several parchments caught his eye; crisp white with their newness, only a little haggard and curled at the edges. Strange markings had been brushed onto them in rough charcoal. Farkas pressed his finger against it gently and felt the black powder rubbing off onto his skin.

“It’s Falmer,” Elisgird announced, startling him. She was vigorously combing loose her wet hair.

“Can you read this?” he asked, interested.

The Harbinger made a face. “Me? No,” she snorted. “It’s just a copy. I passed most of it on to a friend.”

Farkas made a noise in his throat, eyes following the harsh lines of the script. “Reading Nordic is hard enough,” he muttered under his breath.

Elisgird parted her hair over her shoulders and began skimming over the ends with a straight razor. “What about Imperial?”

He rolled his eyes. “I can read that too. Kodlak insisted,” he sighed.

Inches of red-copper curls tumbled to the floor. “They’re both very similar; Nordic and Imperial have roots in Atmoran. Breton, too.”

“Atmoran? Like the Ancient Walls?”

Her smile was infectious. “The very same. Although it wasn’t the Atmoran’s language, they learned it from the dragons. If you were particular about it you’d probably call it _dovah_.”

Farkas shrugged, sipping his wine, and passing Elisgird the second mug. She accepted it graciously. “Vilkas might be,” he told her doubtfully. “Not me, though.”

Elisgird elbowed her way under his arm to look at the papers with him, fingers fluttering at the edges of the parchment.

“What does it mean for you?” he blurted out suddenly. “To be Dragonborn?”

“It means I can understand the power behind the Words without the years of hard study it takes others. I have the soul of a dragon, supposedly, that’s what gives me the ability to Shout. The force behind my Thu’um.”

The big Nord shook his head. “I know what a Dragonborn is. What I mean is, what is it for _you_? Vilkas says there hasn’t been a Dragonborn in a long time. He says you’re the last. There’s a reason you’re here.”

She was quiet for a long time, slipping into her chair easily, cupping her tankard in both hands. Farkas felt himself fall into the chair opposite, the way he used to do when Kodlak desired his company. He took the opportunity of her thoughtful musing to study her face; the way her hair curved around her forehead and her jaw sloped down into her dainty chin, giving her face the shape of a heart. Her nose, the nose she often liked to press against his own was small and straight, and as she looked down it at the books on her desk her lashes fluttered against her cheek bones, broad and high, almost elfin.

She fixed her eyes on his suddenly, making him catch his breath guiltily, as though he’d been caught looking someplace he shouldn’t. No one had eyes like Elisgird’s. They were a brilliant, liquid silver that reflected all the colors around them in some futile attempt to blend in. Presently, her pupils were so wide they were almost completely black, and her beating heart had picked up the pace.

He knew the look on her face so well he almost laughed. _Lust_. He might not know Atmoran, or Falmer, but he knew _women_ , and he knew when they wanted him. Neither he nor his twin had ever suffered from the attention of pretty girls; maids and wenches as fond of their dark, silky hair and smoothly angled faces as highborn ladies. Although, he had to admit, the latter never got them into _nearly_ as much trouble as the former.

The fifth limb between his legs had already decided what it wanted, and Farkas shifted uncomfortably, spreading his legs to ease the flow of blood to his groin. Elisgird’s face flushed pink and she dropped her eyes, hauling herself out of her chair.

“It’s very late.” She told him stiffly. “Goodnight Farkas.”

“Ellie -”

“I’ll still be here tomorrow if you need anything.” She closed her bedroom doors firmly behind her.

Frowning, Farkas picked up her empty tankard and went back to his own room. He relieved himself with his own hands, determinedly thinking of any woman that wasn’t Elisgird. If she wanted him, she bloody well knew where he was, he decided. When he finished, instead of feeling eased, he just felt bewildered. Ignoring the restless beast pacing his mind, he settled in for a rough night’s sleep.


	12. A Noble House

The Harbinger looked her most formidable, wolf’s armor polished to a mirror-shine. Her face was clean and clear, though deep blue circles ringed her eyes they flashed silver, awake and alert. Her hair gleamed copper in the noon sun, framing her face in loose, fiery tendrils. She braided it as they walked, curling it around and around on her head and tucking it in on itself. Farkas watched her hands move deftly out of the corner of his eyes.

“Have you worked for Siddgeir before?” she asked offhandedly, startling him out of his reverie.

“The Companions have, yes. He pays well for good work, but he’s a pain in the ass to deal with. He’s got that high-born lord attitude, smug and superior. He thinks he’s above the smallfolk. Thankfully, they don’t have to deal with him much. That’s what his steward is for. Things were much different when Thadgeir was in charge.”

Elisgird nodded sagely. The mist in Falkreath wasn’t too heavy, and dappled light lit the path in front of them softly. It was raining lightly, but the trees above filtered the worst of it out.

A dragon’s screech echoed from a distance, and the pair turned their eyes skyward. A black shadow drifted lazily beyond the grey clouds.

“It’s closer than it looks, keep an eye on it,” she told him, shifting on her feet uneasily.

He squinted up at it, unsure, but he expected that the Dragonborn had more experience with dragons than his single encounter so far.

“I killed a werewolf here, once,” the Harbinger admitted, tone conversational. “Before I became… a Companion.” Farkas recalled the night he’d seen her on the steps of Dragonsreach, and the way the Savior’s Hide clung to her body, impractical to the eye but stinking of daedric magic. “He couldn’t control his transformations and killed a small girl.”

Farkas snorted. “Sounds more like a natural beast than a trained warrior.”

Elisgird looked up at him sideways. “Is that the difference? Between the Circle, and the others?”

He shrugged. “Oblivion, if I’d know. Vilkas or Aela could probably tell you. Skjor… Skjor talked about that kind of thing a lot. He’d have said yes.” He fell silent, thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking, about what I asked you. About curing the beast blood.”

“Oh?”

“I think that maybe Kodlak was right. As a werewolf, I can't be a good Nord. I want to be clean, like he was, and go to Sovngarde when I finally die. And – I think that I should go first. If it doesn’t work… we don’t have to tell Vilkas.”

She didn’t reply immediately but paused to scrape an interesting-looking mushroom off a damp stone on the side of the road. “I think it could work,” she admitted. “We’ll need one of the witches’ heads, first though.”

Farkas hadn’t thought of that. “What happened to them? Do you still have them?”

“They’re locked in a vault, underneath the cellar of my father’s house.” She frowned.

“You went back to Cyrodiil?” he groaned. Thanks to Ulfric Stormcloak, the border was closed. Before he could protest, though, Elisgird began to laugh.

“Wild atronachs couldn’t drag me back to Cyrodiil,” she wiped her eyes, still snickering. “No. My father inherited Heljarchen Hall from his grandparents. He never used it, though. Skyrim was just a lot of bad memories, to him.”

“Huh. That’s that big old house, up on the hill as you head north to Winterhold. Isn’t it?” The place was huge enough to be visible from the road.

Elisgird confirmed it. “And you can see Dragonsreach from the front door,” she added. “It’s cold up there, but if it were ever properly staffed it could be a nice place.”

“So… you own it?” he’d thought of Jorrvaskr as her home, as it was his. It had never occurred to him that she might have somewhere else.

“No, it’s my father’s house.” She reiterated, sounding annoyed.

Farkas was confused. “But… he’s passed.”

“It’s complicated.” Was all the Harbinger would say, drumming her fingers on her tassets.

 

Siddgeir’s longhouse was quiet, he lounged on his throne lazily, chin resting on his hand, glittering with several emerald and ruby rings. When he saw the pair approaching he stood, smile as wide as his arms, welcoming them. Not the reception Farkas was used to.

“Cousin!” he exclaimed, reaching for Elisgird’s shoulders. “The armor of the Companions sits well on your shoulders. And I believe congratulations is in order on your Thaneship in The Rift?”

The Harbinger smiled sweetly, the dimple in her cheek at its deepest.

“Cousin?” Farkas was confused.

“Hail, Companion.” Siddgeir inclined his head towards the big Nord. “My uncle Dengeir had six younger brothers, Soldmoor being merely the youngest of them. I was delighted to host my dear cousin in Falkreath when she graduated from the Bard’s College. She’s lucky her father had the sense to marry Imperial wealth, at least the second time around.”

Farkas’ eyes darted to Elisgird’s face. Her smile might have been demure, but her eyes were like dark lightening, boring holes in Siddgeir’s back.

The Companion shifted on his feet uneasily.

“Is there something we can do for you, Siddgeir, or did you want to sit around spreading family gossip?” Elisgird’s hand rested lightly on the pommel of her sword.

Thankfully, Siddgeir instead launched into a rather condescending story about how he had been blackmailing some bandits outside Riverwood, and now they were extorting him, and Farkas’ apathy toward the Jarl of Falkreath soured into dislike.  

Finally, Elisgird had heard enough and waved her cousin into silence. “Fine. I’ll take care of it. Just… stop talking.”

He shrugged and leaned back in his throne, clicking his fingers at his steward as the Companions left the longhouse, Elisgird pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I didn’t know he was your cousin,” Farkas remarked.

Elisgird took a deep breath. “My father had six older brothers. His father had four wives and lived to be eighty-nine. By the time the land and the gold got divided between them, all Da got was his maternal grandparent’s house in The Pale, six merchant ships in reasonable condition and his family’s name. I have cousins in every hold in Skyrim, and my mother’s line can be traced right back to the Hero of Kvatch – who is allegedly the daedric lord Sheogorath.” Farkas’ jaw dropped. “Now, do you want me to start reciting all the names of all the noble families of Tamriel and how we’re possibly related, or do you want to forget about it and go pick a fight with some bandits?”

Without waiting for an answer, she snapped her mouth shut and began marching down the road without him. He looked dubiously up at the banner on the longhouse, depicting the antlers of the arms of Falkreath. One of Siddgeir’s guards eyeballed him dubiously and he rushed off after his companion.

“So if Siddgeir supports the Empire, does that make you an Imperialist?” he wanted to know.

Elisgird smirked. “Why, are you a Stormcloak?”

Farkas let out a barking laugh. “If the Empire and the Stormcloaks want to kill each other over nothing, I say let them. I’m not getting involved.”

“You lost your father in the Great War.” She stated, as if that had something to do with it.

“Maybe.” He replied. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You might have to choose a side someday. If Ulfric doesn’t back down there will be civil war.”

“I fight for the Companions. And I’ll fight for Whiterun. But I won’t fight for Ulfric, or Tullius.” He waited for Elisgird to respond, but she didn’t. “What about you?”

“I’d fight for Skyrim. If that means joining the Legion or the Stormcloaks, I’d do it. I’m not going to defeat Alduin just to see the country laid to waste by war.”

In the distance, Farkas could make out the ruins of Helgen, a crumbling, black silhouette against the burnt umber of the sunset sky, nestled between the Jerall Mountains and the Throat of the World.

Elisgird let out a sigh of long-suffering. “Last time I came this way, I still had my horse. I hate walking.”

“Lazy.” Farkas shook his head, grin widening as he watched her scowl deepen.

 

-

 

They returned to the Jarl for their gold and began making their way back through the gloomy forest towards the plains. The grey clouds above had turned Lake Illinata as silver as Elisgird’s eyes, Farkas noticed, as they rested in a clearing beside the road, overlooking the water. The grass was long, and soft, and waved gently in the cool breeze.

“It would be nice to go for a swim. Or at least have a bit of a wash.” Elisgird sat with her knees tucked under her chin, staring out at the lake.

Farkas wrinkled his nose. “It’s full of slaughterfish,” he complained.

“Slaughterfish don’t come into the shallows, they prefer the deep.” She explained but made no move to get up. “I can always bathe at Heljarchen.”

“A hot meal would be nice, too.” The big Nord perked up at the thought. He got to his feet and held out his hand to the Harbinger, who dusted the grass off his back as she rose.

It felt odd to pass through the plains of Whiterun and not stop, but he could see the uppermost turret of Heljarchen as they rounded the east side of the city wall.

“Hail, Companions.” A lone guard called from his watch as they passed.

There was no road to the house, Farkas discovered, as Elisgird turned off the worn stones on to a winding dirt path leading up into the hills.

“Must be close to Giant’s Gap,” he wondered aloud.

Elisgird gave him a wry look. “Nothing like the stubbornness of Nords, building a manor on top of a giant camp.”

He blinked down at her in mock surprise. “Where else are you supposed to build a house?” he asked, warming as she smiled back up at him.

They passed an empty stable, a small chicken coop, and an old mill that looked like it had seen better days before Farkas got a better look at the steading.

It was much bigger than he’d expected, not to mention dark and ominous looking from disuse. Six men could have walked abreast through the front doors; which creaked eerily as Elisgird swung them open. He waved away the swirling dust, eyes adjusting to the dim light. There was a broken chest in one corner, filled with tarnished silverware and cobwebs.

Elisgird cast an orb of light from her palm, and it hovered above their heads, cold, and casting strange shadows. He followed her into a massive great hall, where a table the length of Jorrvaskr still stood, covered in Shor knew how much dust.

“This isn’t what I was expecting,” he remarked.

Eyes like silver coins turned to him, remorseful. “I’d like to do so much more with the place. Clean it out, hire staff, bring the life back into it.”

He shrugged. “Why don’t you?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated.”

They walked the length of the dining hall towards the back, and Farkas followed Elisgird into a large study of sorts. She rolled back a moth-eaten rug on the floor and revealed an iron door, sunk into the stone. He grasped at the ring, yanking it open, and peered down into the darkness.

“Where’s your little light, then?” he asked her, watching as it followed the motion of her finger, holding steady above the trap door. He went down the ladder first, helping the Harbinger down after him. Nine shrines lined the eastern wall, set on a dusty altar, and an ample-sized brewing keg in a similar state of disuse guarded the corner.

Elisgird led him further into the cellar, deeper, into a back room with an underground forge. Farkas coughed, breathing in soot and dust, and waved away cobwebs. Elisgird’s light flickered out, and she cursed, igniting a new one, and it hovered near the ceiling, illuminating twenty safes set into the stone. She counted four across the floor and two upwards, before thumbing her keyring for the right key. It clicked as it turned in the lock.

Just like the first time, Farkas’ beast recoiled, retreating, whimpering, down into the back of his mind until his nerves tingled all over, and all his hair stood on end. Elisgird took several deep breaths before picking up an empty sack off the floor, and hastily shoved one of the cackling heads in it, and locked the others back in. He kept well away as they made their way back upstairs.

Elisgird guided him through the house into the kitchen, and gave him flint to light a fire while she went out to hunt. The deer she brought back was suspiciously clean, as though a very large, very sharp talon had raked its throat precisely. Farkas skinned and butchered it while she went outside to draw water from the well, leaving the buckets to warm by the fire.

“Why here?” he asked, the nagging question finally getting the better of him.

She sighed. “I couldn’t have them at Jorrvaskr. Doesn’t being near them make you sick?”

He glanced at the sack, dumped on the other side of the room from where they sat. “Fair enough.”

“I just couldn’t think of anywhere else. Safe, I mean. I’ve locked a few things away down there, now. I’m not supposed to come here, but… who’s going to check?” she snorted, offering him a half smile.

He returned it, aware she was watching him, admiration on her face. He felt self-conscious suddenly. “What?”

“I like you,” she told him affably. “You know that.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” he snapped back, without meaning to.

A single copper eyebrow raised itself above a shining eye. “Why? Because I don’t throw myself at you like a tavern wench?”

He sighed, chest tight. “I don’t -”

“I’ve got a job to do, Farkas. Skyrim, Alduin… it’s more important than what I want.” She rested her cheek against her palm.

His heart stuttered when she said his name, and he knew she heard it. “How is that fair?”

Elisgird’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “None of this is fair,” she told him. “Can you imagine deserving a fate like this? I don’t know what I did or who I pissed off, but here we are.”

Farkas chewed his venison, savoring it. The Dragonborn disappeared into the house with her buckets of water, presumably to clean herself. He wondered why she bothered, she’d just be covered in road dust and bandit gore again this time tomorrow. He sat, humming to himself quietly, until she returned, hair dripping on the stone.

“There’s beds upstairs. You’ll have to beat the dust off, but the mattresses are real, feather ones.”

He followed her up a sweeping grand staircase and along a wide hallway, and showed him the master suite, to his surprise.

“Isn’t this your room?” he asked pointedly.

She shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be.” Her smile was wide, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Besides, can’t you see yourself like this? The lord and master of a great house?”

He folded his arms, scowling. “Yes, I played that game as a boy. Been talking to Vilkas behind my back, have you?”

“No.” she caressed his face with her hand, dissolving his frown. “Just a hunch.”

With that, she departed, closing the door behind her. Farkas sat down on the bed and listened to her footfalls fade away, wondering if how he’d ever sleep. He could hear Elisgird pacing in her room down the hall, as restless as Vilkas on a bad night. Finally, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, sunlight was streaming through the window.

Heljarchen was transformed in the daylight. Elisgird took him on a cursory tour of the place, showing him the armory, the library, and the greenhouse. All empty of course, but in its prime, Heljarchen would have been a grand manor. A home of warmth, and wealth, with children chasing each other up and down the halls, servants bustling in and out, busy with their tasks. Everything just the way he’d imagined when he was small.


End file.
